


Parental Guidance

by Fight_The_Heteronormatives



Series: Adventures in Super-Parenting [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blatant Canon Erasure, Cassie is Adorable, Gen, I wrote this while choking on a lovely dose of asthmatic bronchitis, Iron dad and Spider son, May is a beacon of light, Ned is a benign and forgiving god, Peter Parker interacts with the MCU, Peter meets New York's finest, Precious Peter Parker, Sorry?, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark continues to have a suit for every occasion, Warning: Language, so is Harley, so like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-10 03:24:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15940805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_The_Heteronormatives/pseuds/Fight_The_Heteronormatives
Summary: “What’s the matter with you?” he asked.“Uh…” Peter quickly took stock. “Dislocated shoulder, I’m pretty sure. The whole left side of my face. I might have a concussion. I just woke up in a stranger’s bed in clothes that aren’t mine, and I’m failing English. On top of that, I’ll probably need therapy for the rest of my life-”Beardy raised a hand to stop him. “Hilarious, Bub. I meant what’s a dumb preteen doing looking for fights in back-alleys?”“That’s actually a longer story,” Peter answered. “Like, three crappy movies with at least two reboots long. Are you sure you want to hear all that?”Beardy’s eye twitched. “Name?”“Peter.”“There,” he said, “Was that so hard?”





	1. This is Gospel

“Hey, on a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be if-”

“ _At least_ a twenty.”

Peter glanced up from his English essay, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. He heard Bruce huff behind him, from where the man sat at his side of the communal lab. Tony, the pessimist in question, was attempting to stare Peter down unsuccessfully. The man was so tired, he could barely force his eyes to focus on Peter’s long enough to intimidate him.

“You haven’t even heard my idea yet!” he complained.

“I don’t need to hear it to know it’ll escalate,” Tony answered, his project now forgotten on the table in front of him. Peter didn’t quite know what it was; it looked like a Roomba, but Peter was pretty sure Roombas didn’t come equipped with steak-knives. “Remember when I tried introducing you and Harley?”

Peter smiled at the memory. Because of the patented potato-gun Harley had built, and the fact that he was only one year younger than himself, Peter had affectionately nick-named him ‘Tater-Tot’. Harley had responded by calling him a myriad of words not acceptable for children. When Tony had come back from his meeting, they’d been in the process of building a nuclear bomb in Harley’s bedroom, and had only stopped to eat four tubs of chocolate mousse apiece and fall into subsequent sugar-comas.

Harley and his family had moved to upstate New York after Mrs. Keaner had received an unexpected job offer. They now had a decent apartment, and Harley would often visit Tony at the compound. Harley’s lab sat in the labs they were currently in, and tony kept him and Peter here under the guise of internships. All-in-all, it was a pretty decent set-up.

“That was one time,” Peter defended, “And introducing Ned to Rhodey went brilliantly, so it’s not like it’s something that happens _often_.”

Bruce hid another chuckle behind a fake cough, but couldn’t hide his smile. He’d been back on Earth a few weeks now, and was surprised at how well he’d fit into the picture. It was almost as if he’d never left. Adjusting to Peter’s presence had been easy, and he’d found that little moments like this – Peter and Tony arguing over lab tables, or throwing popcorn at each-other from separate couches on movie night, or innumerable other domestic quirks – gave him a sense of peace. He was…he didn’t want to jinx it by saying anything aloud, but he was almost _content_ here.

The moment was ruined by Tony’s phone ringing. _The Imperial March_ played over the speakers, and Peter choked on his own laughter. Tony sighed and picked up the phone.

“What is it now?” he asked, unamused. That number was generally reserved for Secretary Ross, but it wasn’t uncommon to hear the same tune from his minions. Bruce shook his head fondly, and went back to his test samples, while Peter returned to his essay on the civil rights movement.

After a few moments of talking, Tony hung up the phone on whoever it was on the line. He stood and stretched, and although Peter was used to the symphony of snaps and cracks from his body, it still made him cringe.

“Bad news,” Tony declared, face uncharacteristically serious. Both Bruce and Peter shared a look, and waited for Tony to elaborate.

“It’s the Hulk,” Tony said, shooting Bruce an apologetic look. “Ross wants to conduct a search of the facility to make sure I’m not harboring you, or anyone else. So, you, my friend, are going to have to go on vacation for a while.”

Bruce seemed to age before their eyes, suddenly looking far older than he had any right to look. “It’s okay. You and I both knew they’d wise up eventually.”

“But not now,” Tony said firmly. “They can wait until I’ve amended at least _some_ of the Accords. And as for you, Underoos,” he turned to Peter. “You are going to chill here till I get back. Do not go into my personal lab, do not get into cars with strangers who show up at the door, and if F.R.I.D.A.Y. gets a virus because of some porn download, I’m kicking you out.”

Peter grinned. “I’ll do my best not to blow anything up. Have fun. And if you’re tempted to kill Ross, just remember that the WIFI in prison is crap.”

Tony snickered, his eyes crinkling in the corners with mirth. God, that kid was going to be the death of him.

“C’mon, Brucie. Your first-class seat awaits.”

Bruce ruffled Peter’s hair as he walked past, and he grinned back at him in response. In only a few steps, they were gone.

He tried to continue with his homework, at first, but the sudden silence in the lab made it impossible to focus. He felt a little like he didn’t belong. He tried to remind himself that Tony had all but ordered him to stay put, but the anxiety in his chest still wouldn’t ebb completely. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y.? Are you there?”

“Yes, Mr. Parker?” she answered immediately.

“Is there anywhere in the compound I’m not allowed to go?”

“Mr. Stark’s personal labs,” she answered, “And personal rooms belonging to the other Avengers.”

Peter waited for a moment longer, not expecting the list to be so short.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it.” she responded.

He stood, and rolled his shoulders to loosen some of the stiffness. Looking around the lab, he took in the sterile white walls, neatly organized desks and equipment, and the skylight – which was a new addition. Outside, heavy, dark clouds floated by, plunging the world into an early twilight. The smell of air freshener and Peter’s Chinese take-out from earlier hung in the air, and he could just hear the sound of whirring machinery in the background. Peter was staying over tonight, as it was his weekend visitation. He had a room, and he could retire for the night, he supposed…

…But where was the fun in that?

“Hey, Fri? Where’s the gym again?”

“Two corridors away, due east.”

Peter sighed. Sometimes, he thought F.R.I.D.A.Y. was intentionally difficult when it came to him. Tony assured him she was just going through her rebellious phase; it had happened to J.A.R.V.I.S., too.

A few moments later, and with no short amount of difficulty, Peter was standing in what had to be the greatest gymnasium ever conceived by man. He’d been in there before in order to test his capabilities, and adjust the suit to the new information; yet it still took his breath away.

The entrance opened up to a large, square area, about the size of the soccer field at Midtown Prep. To his left, a sizeable boxing ring sat, brand new and awaiting use. A reinforced boxing bag could easily be hauled into a chain hanging from the ceiling, but otherwise, the spot was perfect for sparring. To his right, fitness equipment lay, unused and pristine. Dumbbells, treadmills, rowing machines and weights.

Further on, and to the left again, was the far more skill-based training courses. Targets were set up all around the room, at odd angles, and a rack holding several recurve bows and arrows stood patiently awaiting an archer. Past those, human-sized dummies were set up, and a wall of continuously obscure, lethal weapons sat behind that. Knives, garottes, swords, and iron knuckles were recognizable; but more than a few were beyond Peter’s ability to recognize.

To Peter’s right yet again, was a swimming pool grand enough to make an Olympic athlete weep. Peter hadn’t tested it, but he knew there were settings to create currents that mimic oceans, rapids, and whirlpools. He’d seen it in action once or twice, and he knew the floor could be altered to be only five feet deep, or twenty meters deep. It even had a jacuzzi setting.

Lastly, at the back of the room, was the obstacle course. Mud pools sat undisturbed beneath monkey-bars that rested a solid twenty feet in the air. Rickety stands that reminded Peter of that TV show, _Wipeout_ , followed them, leading on to a ‘reflex test’ path. As soon as you stepped into the walkway, projectiles came at you from every side; and if you were hit, you went back to the beginning. The final stretch of the course was quicksand-themed, complete with riptides and freak incidents; like the quicksand suddenly rising five feet, or the floor shifting eight feet backwards. This was all among other challenges that changed after every use – weighted doors you had to lift from the bottom, taller walls or uneven ground, and sometimes the temperatures were played with too, so you could be fighting in blistering heat or freezing cold. There was also a ‘surprise’ test each time, where a never-before-encountered obstacle was added. This challenged you to adapt at a moment’s notice.

The usual fun stuff, then.

On the far wall, a chart-board was split into two segments: human and non-human. On the human side, Rhodey, Sam, Clint, and Tony’s records sat. On the other, Steve, Wanda, Natasha, and Vision. The times on their side were considerably lower, unsurprisingly.

Peter was always floored at the amount of effort put into the place. The sheer care taken, the intense attention to detail, the _expense_ it must’ve cost; Tony loved his team. He adored them, worried over them, bled for them; it was obvious in every coat of white and red paint, every reinforcing stitch, and every training segment. _And the rest of the avengers had thrown it away._

Peter understood that it was more complicated than that. There were details he didn’t know, and concepts he didn’t grasp. Knowing that, however, didn’t stop the burning resentment in his chest that flared up whenever Peter thought about what Tony had gone through.

 _Whatever,_ he thought. Iron Man was too good for them anyway.

“Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he asked the empty room, “Can I try the obstacle course?”

“I’m afraid not,” she answered immediately. “If you are not on the board, and Mr. Stark is not here, then the obstacle course is off limits.”

He huffed, somewhat annoyed, but he understood. Tony worried after his people’s safety; the fact that this room even existed was proof enough of that.

Working his way back, he hopped into the ring and grabbed a pair of gloves. His jacket had been abandoned in the labs, so that wasn’t an issue. He went a few rounds with the bag, clearly designed with Captain America in mind. It was huge, and it took a lot of Peter’s strength to make the thing move. He toyed with it for what must’ve been a few minutes, finding he liked it. It wasn’t perfect, but it would make a decent workout.

After that, he put the gloves back, and called out to F.R.I.D.A.Y.

“Is the communal area on this floor? I can’t quite remember.”

“Basement level, Mr. Parker.” she answered, and Peter made for the place.

A moment later, he was striding through the private ‘living room’ of the compound. It was a beautiful place; pale cream carpets, soft, gold chairs and couches, and a perfectly white ceiling. The place smelled like fresh-baked bread, brand-new paint, and new leather. The sound of classical music played quietly in the background, and the air was just warm enough to be comfy and not stifling.

The couches were arranged in an ‘L’ shape to his right, around a fifty-inch plasma screen; and the yellow ceiling light bathed everything in a warm glow. To his left, a fully equipped bar sat ready for use, and before him, a mahogany dining-room table sat awaiting a family. It was large enough to seat ten people easily, but only four chairs had been set along one side of it; the side opposite the door.

One whole wall – the one behind the dining room table – could be digitally changed to project an image or video. Right now, it was a sunset over the Arabian desert.

Peter had seen this place once before, when he’d first come by here for a weekend trip. It was beautiful, but hollow, in the same way the gym was. It was meant for so many people, and showcased so much of the love Tony felt for his team; but so few ever laid eyes on it. Peter had to work to squish down another wave of bitterness.

There was, however, a new addition he hadn’t noticed before. The bar was separated from the rest of the area by a long table, on which drinks were sat so that others could pick them up. Lying on the table, pointed towards the rest of the room, was what looked like a high-tech coffee machine.

It was sleek, and black, and reminded Peter of a few of Tony’s cars. On one side, several names were typed, with a button situated next to each. They read as such:

  * Brucie
  * Natalie
  * Pepper
  * T’Challa
  * Tony
  * Underoos



His eyes zeroed in on his nickname, and his curiosity got the better of him.

“Hey, Fri? How do I work this thing?” he asked, almost worried that if he pressed the wrong button, it would suddenly turn sentient and stab him.

“Do you see your name on it?” she asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” he answered.

“There should be a small, square plaque on the opposite side of the name as the button. Place your right forefinger onto it.”

Peter found the plaque easily enough, and pressed it. Almost immediately, a new list appeared on the HD screen near the top of the contraption:

  1. Coffee
  2. Hot Chocolate
  3. Soda



“Um,” he asked, “What does this mean?”

“The amount of times you push your name’s button corresponds with what you’re ordering,” the AI patiently explained, “Push the button twice, and see what happens.”

Peter looked around for a cup, but didn’t find one. Taking a chance, he pushed the button with his name twice. Almost immediately, a porcelain mug popped up out of what must’ve been a false bottom. Dark brown, steaming liquid poured from a hidden nozzle, filling the mug two-thirds of the way. Then, a white, creamy foam filled it the rest of the way. Just when Peter thought it was done, cocoa powder was sprinkled on top, in the shape of a spider; the same way most baristas did it. The machine gave a cheerful ding, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. instructed him to take the mug.

He took a slow, careful sip, and found it to be the perfect temperature for drinking. It was smooth and creamy, and far too sweet for a normal person; but Peter had a metabolism like an insect, and the sweeter something was, the more he liked it. It was absolutely perfect.

He suddenly laughed; he couldn’t help it. “I don’t know whether to be incredibly impressed, or totally creeped out.”

“Mr. Stark prides himself on knowing his friend’s needs, and predicting them in advance.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. answered, sounding almost proud.

Peter felt a bubbly, warm feeling grow in his chest that had nothing to do with the hot chocolate. He was one of Mr. Stark’s friends. One of _Mr. Stark’s_ friends. His inner ten-year-old just _fainted_. He looked down at the spotless, cream carpet, and tightened his grip on his cup. The last thing he wanted to do was spill.

“Hey, Fri?” he asked, “Will I get into trouble if I relaxed a bit?”

“ _Hardly,_ ” she answered, with something dangerously close to a scoff.

Grinning, he kicked off his trainers, and let his feet sink into the plush carpeting. Peter had often suffered from sensory overload after the bite, and this entire room made him feel the exact opposite of overwhelmed. It was gentle, and enjoyable; the barely-audible music, the warm lighting, the soft curves of the entire place. The carpeting, the hot chocolate, the scenery; what did he ever do to get lucky enough to be here?

 _I think it had something to do with a plane_ , he thought sarcastically. He cautiously made his way to the couch, and sunk down into the plush, pale leather. It was the real thing – not that Peter knew much about that. But it was the same kind of leather as in Mr. Stark’s limo, and Peter knew he opted for nothing but the best.

With the soft couch, the hot chocolate, and the atmosphere, it’s no wonder his eyelids started drifting closed. He tried to fight it, thinking of his unfinished homework upstairs, and of Mr. Stark’s imminent return. But all of those things seemed so far away, and he was so comfy, and the buffet he’d eaten earlier in the day had taken the edge off his limitless hunger, helped along by the sugary hot chocolate. Before he’d thought about it to any strong degree, he’d drifted off.

…

This is how Tony found him, a good two hours later.

The billionaire had wandered back to the labs, exhausted, and had plans to send the kid to bed if he wasn’t already there. Normally, he was pretty good with the curfew; but Peter was still a teenager, and every memory of what he was like drove Tony to be a little more cautious than was warranted these days.

The labs had been empty, which wasn’t unusual for the time, but Tony frowned at Peter’s workspace. The chair was still pulled out, the jacket slung on top of it. Stationary, notepads, and workbooks were splayed over the desk haphazardly, and Peter’s take-away food box from earlier was still lying open.

Peter always cleaned up after himself. It was one of the first things Tony had learnt about the kid. Despite the state of his bedroom on the regular, if it wasn’t Peter’s, it was left spotless. _The symptoms of being raised right,_ he’d thought, the first time he’d taken note of it.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Tony called, “Where’s Pete?”

“The communal area, Boss,” she answered immediately.

Tony forced himself to walk there. He had no reason to believe something was up; people didn’t always stick to their patterns, even the most ingrained habits. It was no cause for concern. Still, when he found Peter curled up on the couch, perfectly safe, a few tons of stress and worry rolled off of his shoulders.

His left arm – the one that had been crushed during the civil war – tended to ache and tremble when he got stressed. It eased now, without Tony having to rub it out as per usual.

The kid had kicked off his shoes, and left them by the coffee machine, before curling up on the shiny leather. An empty mug was loosely gripped in his hand, the last dregs of hot chocolate still lying in the bottom. He had a faint chocolate mustache from the drink, and he would be mortified to find he’d smeared a bit of it on the arm of the couch when he’d lain down. His hair was tousled slightly, and his body twitched every few moments from whatever dream he was having, almost like a dog.

Tony caught himself smiling fondly at the kid, and moved to tuck his suit jacket over him. It was a little out of character, true, but he didn’t have a reputation to maintain in private. That, and he was happy to have the kid down here; it was a sign that he was relaxing into the place. It was good.

However, he only made it three feet before Peter’s eyes snapped open, perfectly aware. He sat bolt upright, looking around. Tony hadn’t taken the jacket off yet, so he was able to raise an eyebrow in a quiet, almost judgmental question, without looking like a creepy hypocrite.

Peter looked around blearily, and turned several different shades of tomato-red.

“Sorry,” he said, “Sorry. Drifted off. How was the trip?”

“It went well.” Tony said, keeping everything about the situation casual. The kid hadn’t done anything wrong, but would probably be at least a bit embarrassed. “Bruce is enjoying a restful vacation in one of my favorite little spots in the Caribbean at the moment. Did you try out the coffee machine?”

He gestured to the cup in Peter’s hand, and Peter fidgeted a little nervously. “Yeah. Uh, sorry, if I should’ve asked permission first.”

“It’s okay,” Tony said, squashing down a pidge of irritation. He knew the kid was just a little nervous at being caught in someone else’s place; it was natural. “If it has your name on it, feel free to play around with it. That’s how I built up Stark Industries, after all.”

Peter smiled, and relaxed. Tony took it as a win, and expertly pushed the buttons on the machine. Three times for him – his only non-alcoholic mix – and twice for Peter – another hot chocolate. Peter stood, and located the sink. Tony waved him off when he tried to wash his cup.

“I have a bot to do that. You’re not going to ruin DUM-E’s fun, are you? He’s been so looking forward to doing something other than sweeping.”

Peter grinned, and left his cup in the sink without complaint.

“So, how’d it go with Ross?” Peter asked, and was cut off by Tony’s lengthy, agonized groan.

“That man is going to drive me mad,” Tony complained, “Seriously. Were I not actually trying to obey the law here, that man would wake up tomorrow, completely naked, in the middle of the Wakandan jungle. It’d be a nice weekend gift for T’Challa.”

Peter snorted, and hid it poorly. He couldn’t help it; the mental image was too much. He’d seen Ross on the news sometimes, and he couldn’t help but think that the man needed to lay off the whitening strips and bigotry. He’d mentioned it aloud once, in passing, and MJ had looked at him with something that wasn’t quite exasperation or irritation. He liked it.

He accepted the hot chocolate eagerly, taking sip as soon as it was in his hands. Tony hid his own amusement much better than Peter did; the kid reminded him of an over-excited puppy at times.

“Right,” he said, breaking the silence, “After that, head up to bed. You know your curfew’s in place for a reason.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Or else I’ll get kidnapped by another empty suit?”

“That was _one time_ ,” Tony moaned, “Would you let it go?”

Peter snorted, and obligingly high-tailed it once his mug was empty. Just because he was a little more chilled around Tony now, didn’t mean he wanted to start a fight.

That night, he slept peacefully.  

 


	2. Death of a Bachelor

Tony didn’t expect to hear from Peter outside of the usual this week. There was the normal stuff; his check-ins at the end of every patrol, and his bi-monthly stay at the compound, but outside of that, they rarely bumped into each-other. Not even in costume.

So, when Peter walked into one of Tony’s favorite restaurants, he was a little surprised.

_La Cucina di Ferro_ was a relatively fancy place, but not extortionate. It had a fifteen-dollar entrance fee – a big reason why seeing Peter there was strange – but it had genuine Italian food that tasted like the stuff his first nannies used to make him. Normally, nostalgia was something painful that he did his best to avoid; but this type was the rare kind that made him smile.

He was there after coming back from a business trip to Hawaii, and he and Pepper had stopped by for a bite to eat. Pep was on her way – she wanted to stop by their hotel first to freshen up – so for now it was just Tony, sitting among a handful of other groups of people spattered around the floor, listening to the cello and violin musical accompaniment. He was just starting to relax into the soft candlelight and enjoy the smell of baking bread.

He only glanced at the door when he heard a familiar voice mumble, “Table for two, please?”

He raised an eyebrow, confused but amused. Peter wore decent slacks, shined shoes, and a checkered sweater-vest that he kept straightening and fidgeting with. His glasses were skew on his nose, his white button-down under his vest was a little singed, and his hair was combed and gelled back. He looked like a seventh grader attending his first dance.

Peter forked over the fifteen bucks in small change and crumpled bills, and the doorman’s smile became a little more strained. A server started to lead Peter to an outside table, but Tony caught the man’s eye, and gestured to the table next to his. The server complied immediately, used to the often-incomprehensible desires and requests of the wealthy.

Peter still hadn’t noticed him, his head down and his eyes darting from side-to-side in an unseeing way, like when he ran equations through his head while debating. He sat where the server gestured, sitting so that he was facing the same way Tony was, and immediately picked up a menu to hide behind.

Tony quietly summoned the server, and arranged to have everything Peter ordered put on his tab. The server didn’t even blink at the request, long used to this kind of thing. He grinned a sharp grin that was just a little too dark for Tony’s liking, and left.

Tony shot another glance at Peter to see if he’d noticed anything yet. His head was still firmly tucked behind his menu, almost as if he was too shy to look up.

Tony coughed loudly, and Peter jumped like he’d been prodded in the back with a tazer. His eyes fixed on Tony like a deer trapped in an eighteen-wheeler’s headlights.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered, slightly panicked.

“Wow,” Tony replied, starting to enjoy this, “Kids these days. So rude. I’ve come here to eat since before I was even Iron Man.” He popped a piece of garlic bread into his mouth.

“Your turn. This place isn’t really your speed. Y’know, between you and I, there’s a diner three blocks down that’ll give you food this good, and won’t put you into debt while going about it.”

Peter blushed, looking very much like he wanted to crawl into a hole and never crawl back out. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then put his head back into his menu.

Tony bit back a chuckle. He was starting to form an idea of what may be going on here, and it was honestly so perfect it almost made up for everything else the universe had put him through lately.

He was so wrapped up with Peter, he almost didn’t notice Pepper walk in. He only noticed when the server pulled out a chair for her, and she gratefully took a seat.

“Hey, Tony,” she greeted, setting her purse down on the floor by her chair.

“Pep,” he replied, smiling widely. He nodded his head towards Peter, and she glanced his way long enough to recognize who he was.

“Peter!” she greeted, and Peter jumped again. “What a lovely surprise! I didn’t expect I’d get to see you till next week!”

Peter cringed, but hid it well. “Hi, Miss Potts. I- uh-”

Peter’s head snapped up, having picked a familiar voice by the door. He nervously began fiddling with his sweater. Peter’s server dropped off a fourth person; a young girl. It was just as Tony had suspected; Peter was here on a _date._

“Monsieur,” The server greeted, just a tad sardonically.

“Uh- thanks?” he said, while the girl sat down with an eyeroll. Pepper pursed her lips to hide a smile, and purposefully turned to give Peter and his date some privacy. A harsh kick under the table got Tony to do the same. That didn’t mean he didn’t eavesdrop, however.

“Hey, Pete,” she greeted with an easy smile, “How’s it going?”

“Good,” he replied with a shaky smile. “Good. You?”

“Alright,” she replied, tucking her chair in. She leaned over the table and, still smiling in amusement, ruffled his hair. “What’s up with this? You look like you’re cosplaying from ‘Grease’.”

“Hey,” he complained, batting her hands away, “It took my aunt ten minutes to do my hair! Now I look like a hedgehog!”

The girl laughed, and Tony struggled not to do the same. She picked up her menu, crossed her ankles, and leaned back, completely at ease. “It looks okay. Now, what do they have here that’s not going to bleed us dry?”

Peter smiled, and relaxed a little. He almost seemed to forget that Tony was there, which was honestly his preference. If Pepper wouldn’t have exiled him from his lab for it, he would’ve made a remark about ‘dinner and a show’; but instead he ordered his usual from the waiter and let them get on with it.

The girl – he’d learnt her name was MJ – had dark olive skin and kinky, tightly-coiled brown hair. She had brown eyes and a light dusting of freckles on her cheeks. She wore no make-up, but it didn’t take anything away from her. She was relaxed, and casual, and just a little cocky; but she could handle small-talk, and had eased Peter’s nervousness in the first few seconds of arriving. Tony decided he liked her.

“So, have you finished that English project yet?” She asked as their starters arrived. “I know it’s only due in a week, but if you haven’t at least picked a topic, you’re gonna fail.”

“I know,” he replied with a sigh, “Do you think the teachers plan this? Like, do you think they all arrange their schedules in the worst way possible for us?”

“Probably,” MJ said around a mouthful of breadsticks. “Knowing Mr. Lancer, it wouldn’t surprise me. So, the project?”

“Yeah,” Peter answered. “I’ve already got the format and everything done. I picked ‘ _The Pros and Cons of Introducing Nuclear Technology to the Developing World_ ’. You?”

“‘ _The Socio-Political Effects of the Sokovia Accords_ ’,” she replied. “Go big or go home, right?”

Peter smiled a little shakily. “Yeah, I guess so.”

After that, their food arrived, and they lulled into a comfortable silence. Tony dug into his own food, which was starting to get cold. Pepper had been shooting him disapproving glances all evening, and he was dangerously close to a lecture. It wouldn’t hurt him to behave for a short while.

Finally, Tony heard Peter ask, “So, which stance are you taking?”

“Hmm?” MJ replied around her chicken soup.

“On the Accords,” Peter clarified, “Are you for them or against them?”

Tony went very still. The mention of the Accords still rattled him, and he could feel a phantom pain start to burn around his eye where Steve had broken his nose. His arm began to ache with a frustrating, familiar pain.

MJ leaned forward and put her head on her folded hands, seeming to genuinely consider his question. After a moment, she spoke. “Neither. I can’t reliably take a stance when I don’t have the relevant information.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asked, food now half-forgotten before him.

“Well,” she said, setting down her spoon with a _clink_ , “We don’t really know what happened, do we? From what we’ve been told, after Ultron’s attack on Sokovia, the UN tried to implement a new set of laws that would hold superheroes accountable for whatever they did. It would, essentially, put them under the same umbrella as cops, paramedics, and firemen. Which doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

Peter shook his head. Of course not. It was probably a long time coming.

“But then, there was the bombing of the UN building, which supposedly traced back to Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s old war buddy.”

At the mention of Bucky, Pepper gently rubbed her foot against Tony’s ankle in a sign of comfort. It was appreciated, but Tony was too busy listening to fully acknowledge it.

“That makes really little sense to me,” MJ was saying, now gesturing as she spoke. “First, shouldn’t he be dead? Even if he didn’t die in World War Two, he should’ve died of old age by now. But in the pictures they put out looking for him, he didn’t look a day over twenty-five. Also, wasn’t he on our side? It just…doesn’t make sense. Following that, we have cops trying to arrest Captain America, the king of a third-world country running around as a bullet-proof furry, a German airport getting shut down because a bunch of heroes had a slap-fight in the middle of it, and now half the world’s most powerful defenders are on the FBI’s most-wanted list.”

She sighed, sounding exhausted, as if the mere fact that all this existed took a lot out of her. “Honestly, the most remarkable part of the whole thing was how easily a supposedly sophisticated and unbreakable government order was undermined literally overnight.”

Peter looked thoughtful, chewing over everything she’d said. Tony waited with baited breath to hear what he had to say, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were. _God, why didn’t he just let them have their privacy?_ This is what he gets for trying to spy on his intern/protégé.

“Y’know,” he said, picking up his spoon and having another sip of his soup. “You have a lot of good points. I’ve never really thought about it that way. I just hope that if the world actually needed it, whatever went down wouldn’t be enough to keep the Avengers from fighting with each-other, rather than against each-other.”

He smiled at her. “Also, it looks like you do have a stance, really. You can make your project about political transparency and endangering the masses. That could lead to a point about the socio-political effects; populations of people viewing their governments as inadequate could lead to devastating changes on the economy and on society. You’re studying for investigative journalism, aren’t you? I’m sure you’d have a lot of material to work with from that angle.”

MJ looked at him, then slowly smiled in a way that was almost fond and sweet. Tony, for the first time that evening, felt like he really was intruding on something private. Before anything could happen – like them kissing or him making a fool of himself – they lulled back into silence.

Tony did his best not to stare at Peter. He didn’t want to out the kid in the middle of the restaurant, and he hoped that the meager candlelight would be enough to keep the girl from noticing him.

It didn’t work. He knew it wouldn’t. While Peter haggled over paying his bill, which seemed to no longer exist, MJ turned and met his eyes steadily. There was no surprise there, no awe, not even amusement. She gave him a long, up-and-down look, before turning back to Peter.

The spell was broken by their waiter putting down a bill in front of him. Pepper must’ve ordered it, unsurprisingly. She spared him a concerned glance, but Tony pretended he didn’t see it. He paid his bill and left.

A full week later, on the day when Peter was supposed to arrive for his weekend stayover, Tony was still running the evening through his head. Peter’s words rang in his ears unendingly; _‘I just hope that if the world actually needed it, whatever went down wouldn’t be enough to keep the Avengers from fighting with each-other, rather than against each-other.’_

_Could_ they fight together again? Tony remembered hiding from Ultron on Clint’s farm, arguing with Steve. _‘I don’t trust a guy who doesn’t have a dark side’,_ he’d said.

‘ _Maybe you just haven’t seen it yet’_ , Steve had answered.

Tony had seen it now. When he had fought Steve and Bucky, his rage had made him ruthless. He didn’t know if he could’ve killed Bucky then, if he’d been able to; but to be honest, he thought maybe he could’ve. He knew now that he would’ve regretted it, but back then?

Whenever he knocked one man down, the other spat the blood out of their mouths, and kept coming. He beat Steve back, and Bucky came at him like a man possessed. He ripped Bucky’s arm off, and Steve growled and drove his shield right through his chest. Steve had a dark side. He had a _very_ dark side. And Tony had almost been one of its victims.

After being methodically destroyed, and seeing Steve limp away with his arm wrapped tight around Bucky, supporting him, Tony made one last-ditch attempt to make him change his mind. He’d tried to make him drop the shield; to realize what he’d be giving up by continuing down this path.

Steve paused; then let the shield fall to the ground. He readjusted his grip on Bucky Barnes, and continued their slow limp to freedom. He didn’t look back once.

After that, Tony’s thoughts turned to Peter. He’d been intending to track the vigilante known as ‘Spiderman’ down for weeks. Finding out that he was, of all people, a fifteen-year-old high-schooler had been a shock. Tony had wanted to bring him into the Avengers, if things had gone that way; but after this revelation, his resolve wavered. How could he do that to a _kid?_ It was only with the Avengers splitting in half that Tony pulled him in.

It wasn’t supposed to be bad. He had only forty-eight hours to bring his team in before Ross okayed a lethal finding, and his options were limited. All he wanted to do was bring in someone Cap hadn’t fought before; the others, like Rhodey and the Black Panther, Steve knew how to take down if he had to. But someone like Spiderman would’ve given him pause. He didn’t know Peter’s style, his limitations, his weapons of choice; Tony had hoped that would make Steve hesitate.

He’d been wrong, obviously; but Steve had gone easy, like Tony had hoped he would if things took a turn. If he’d been fighting Peter like he’d fought Tony – he shivered at the thought. Peter wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the ring with Steve; and that was if he was lucky.

Even with Peter bouncing back after less than a day, Tony had been so hesitant to put the kid in anymore danger, that he’d left him alone for two months. He’d thought Pete would need a _break_ after Germany; _God,_ had he been wrong.

Peter must’ve taken the lack of any feedback as a sign of failure or distrust, because the next time Tony saw Peter face-to-face, they were standing on the edge of a building, and Peter’s carelessness had nearly cost a whole ferry of people their lives. Tony had been worse than furious; this type of reckless vigilantism was _exactly_ what got Steve into trouble, and Tony was not about to introduce another Captain America to the world. When Peter said that he was just trying to be more like _Tony,_ that had nearly pushed him over the edge.

He’d taken back the suit, and Peter had gone quiet for almost two weeks. Then Tony wondered into his lounge, flicked on his TV, and saw his plane burning on the shore of Coney Island.

Ned Leeds had given him the whole story, when Tony failed to track down Peter, and had instead called his closest friend. The important footnotes Tony gathered from the stunned babble was: Peter’s date’s dad was the ‘Vulture’ who’d been steeling Tony’s tech using scavenged Chitauri technology, and Peter had gone after him in just his normal suit after the Vulture had threatened his aunt and friends.

Happy called then, and told him that the kid had tried to warn him about the imminent attack, and that Happy had hung up on him. Also, Peter had left the Vulture and every piece of tech neatly tied up on the beach; but Spiderman himself was nowhere to be found.

Tony had thought far enough ahead to slip a tracker, along with an audio recording device, onto the weaker suit; but both must’ve been damaged somewhere along the way, because it took Tony till sunrise to find him. Admittedly, when you have a kid who jumps off of skyscrapers for fun, checking the highest points _first_ when they go missing sounds logical; but if Tony had been thinking logically, then maybe it would’ve taken him less than _six hours_ to check the top of the rollercoaster.

Tony had half a mind to yell at the kid again; or maybe break down crying. He didn’t quite know what he was going to do, but found that when he got there, it was…nothing.

The kid was asleep. _Asleep._ On top of a _rollercoaster._ At the rate Peter was messing with his blood pressure, he had maybe three weeks to live, if he quit drinking _right fucking now_. He sat – a mission in and of itself in the suit – and looked down at the clean up on the beach. Peter…had admittedly done more than well. Happy’s apologies came through, both for Peter and to him, but Tony blotted them out. Ned Leeds called again, only to ask if Tony had found Peter yet. He reported back that he was fine, but that they’d be a while.

Peter woke up, not surprised at all to see Tony there. They’d sat there, feeling the cool breeze, blinking in the orange-pink rays of the rising sun, for a long time. The seagulls squawked in the air, and low voices drifted up to them from below, carried on the icy wind. Neither of them had anything to say right then. Finally, Peter tried to move to a sitting position. It didn’t work out so well for him; he fell back down, breathing harder.

The suit, Tony could see, was nothing much more than a hoodie and loose cotton pants; it protected him from nothing. It was ripped beyond repair, showing giant patches of black and blue skin.

“You’re getting medical treatment,” Tony had said, then cringed. _Way to go,_ he thought _, really showing your appreciation there._ But Peter hadn’t argued, either because he was too tired, too sore, or both. Once Dr. Helen Cho had declared Peter fine, if banged up, and the kid had been dropped off at home, Tony had gotten to work.

He drank a whole six-pack of five-hour energy drinks, and personally double-checked that his tech was secure. Once that was done, he brought in Happy and the rest of his security team, and gave them the verbal lashing of their lives. Two men may have started crying, and one resigned the moment Tony was done talking, but Tony didn’t give it a second thought. If they’d done their jobs, then Peter wouldn’t have had to risk his life _numerous times_ to keep Stark tech off the black market. Happy, especially, got a face full of _Tony’s_ dark side.

Once that was seen to, Tony made sure that the Vulture was secure, and that charges would be pressed. The rest of his team was an easy round-up for the FBI, who would’ve gotten it from Tony too, had they worked for him. Then, Tony saw to the less crucial things, like debriefing the UN, cleaning up what was left of the plane, and going over Peter’s audio from his suit.

That had been the worst thing to sit through. He heard Peter steal his friend’s car, call Ned Leeds, and try to call Happy. Afterwards, he heard Peter talk to the Vulture, and then the unmistakable sounds of a fight.

Listening to Peter scream for help while buried under all that rubble was unbearable. Tony wasn’t even able to get through the whole clip before he shut it off and grabbed a random alcoholic drink off the shelf of his bar. Drowning it, he resolved to bring the Spidey-suit updates he’d tucked away back into the open, and revisit his ‘join the Avengers’ idea.

Tony was shaken out of his current musings by Happy pulling in at the gate, here to drop off Peter, no doubt. The man had (miraculously) kept his job, though his current security analysis had to be peer-reviewed by three other specialists before being accepted. A minute later, Peter skid into the labs, grinning widely and already pulling out his schoolbooks.

“Hey, kid,” Tony greeted, “I’m guessing you had fun this week.”

His joy turned into mild mortification as he took his normal seat, groaning. “What are the chances of us pretending that never happened?”

“Oh, nonexistent,” Tony replied, grinning. “So, when’s the wedding?”

“It’s not like that,” Peter hid his face behind his hands, “Really. We just…”

He groaned, and buried his head in his arms, while Tony bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“It’s okay, kid. I’m just making sure you don’t forget to invite Pep and I. I give a mean best man speech, you know,” he pulled up his newest project on the holoscreen. “How was school?”

Peter managed to hold both sides of their conversation easily, when he finally stopped blushing long enough to get a word out. Tony made the appropriate ‘I’m still listening’ noises whenever he’d slow down. He talked about Cindy Moon getting chosen to compete in a country-wide gymnastics competition, and his friend Abraham coming out as gay, and his Aunt finally dating again. After half an hour of this, Peter stopped long enough to make Tony look up. Peter was staring at him, head tilted slightly to the side in confusion.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Are you okay? You seem kind of off today.” The kid seemed genuinely worried.

“I’m fine, kid,” he said, “You know me. Made of iron. Now, you were saying?”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, and he gave Tony a once over that reminded him of MJ. “Are you sure?”

Tony debated his answer for a moment before speaking. He sighed, and figured he may as well. Hiding things leads to miscommunication. Miscommunication leads to sinking ferries.

He turned towards Peter, minimizing his holoscreen and putting his hands on the table. “Listen, kid. That thing you said to your girlfriend-”

“Not my girlfriend,” Peter interrupted, “Just a girl. Who’s a friend. Who I went out with once.” He trailed off awkwardly under Tony’s blank stare. “Right. Sorry. Go on.”

“…That thing you said to your not-girlfriend,” he continued, “When you were discussing the Accords. Did you mean it?”

He frowned, then seemed to realize what Tony meant. “Oh. That thing about the Avengers.” He considered for a moment, then turned back to Tony. “Yeah. I meant it. I mean, I know I don’t know everything about the Accords, and what went down; which is okay, you know, since I’m not an Avenger, and my life doesn’t depend on knowing this stuff.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tick. “My point is, I get enough of what was going on to know siding with you guys back then was the right call. Everything that was going on – what Captain Rogers did put a lot of people in danger, and he needs to be held accountable for that – but if something were to happen, like an apocalypse, or another invasion, or whatever,” Peter met Tony’s eyes steadily. “He and the others are still the best defense Earth has right now. And I just hope that we could all at least be civil if it came down to it.”

He clamped his jaw shut before his babbling could make him look like an idiot. Or, well, a bigger idiot. Tony stared at him blankly, almost looking through him, milling over his words. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, and the dark clouds visible through the skylight rolled by like waves swirling in the ocean’s currents. Leaves flew past the glass, reminding Peter of shooting stars. The overhead florescent lights offered better illumination than the sun outside at the moment, and the whole place smelt faintly of bleach and engine grease.

Tony opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, reconsidering. Finally, he sighed deeply, looking far older than a man in his thirties had any right to.

“Listen, kid,” he said, and Peter sat up and payed attention. Something in the older man’s tone of voice told Peter this was something he’d hear once, and then never again. “I…I don’t know whether or not the Avengers will ever be okay, exactly, again. I hope so, I do, but I don’t _know._ ”

Peter mulled this over for a moment. “Why not?” he asked, “I get it if you don’t want to say, y’know, because you don’t really owe me an explanation-”

“Except that I do,” Tony interrupted, still uncharacteristically serious. “The way things are going, it looks like you might be an Avenger at some point in the future; and, like you said, there’s always the chance something goes wrong. _Very_ wrong. You should know everything we know, at the very least.”

Peter waited. Tony paused, seeming to weigh his words very carefully before saying them. In the background, DUM-E rolled by, dunce-cap in place and broom in hand, oblivious to the charged atmosphere in the room. Robots were lucky like that.

“See,” Tony began, “It all started with Ultron…”

Tony explained everything. He talked about the conflict that sprung up between the Avengers after Ultron and during the introduction of the Sokovia Accords, and about the appearance of Bucky Barnes. He talked about finding out that Steve and Bucky were onto something with Zemo, and heading to the sleeper agents’ nest. He also talked about finding out his parent’s deaths were committed by the Winter Soldier in his glory days, and how everything escalated thereafter. It took a while, he knew, because when he looked up, the shadows on the wall were gone, and the clouds outside were almost invisible with how dark it was.

Peter was frozen in his seat. He hadn’t been this still for this long since before he’d been bitten. Once Tony had drifted off into silence, he could only manage one phrase: “Holy shit.”

It was almost funny, Tony thought later. The kid had always been so careful and polite around him, and that crushed the whole façade.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Peter said, still stunned. “That…I don’t really know how to respond to that.”

“I didn’t really expect you to,” Tony answered. “I just wanted you to know exactly what giant pile of horseshit you were flinging yourself into.”

Peter managed a slightly hysterical laugh, still not quite meeting Tony’s eyes. “Really, though. I know it’s not the same at all, but I remember finding the guy who shot my uncle during my first few dry-runs as Spiderman. If that sucked, I can’t imagine how this must’ve felt for you.”

Tony’s head snapped up, eyes fixing on Peter with sudden interest. “You found the guy who shot your uncle?”

Peter nodded, eyes glazed over somewhat in the memory. It had been raining hard then, and the blood from a grazed bullet wound dripped off of Peter’s hoodie, and vanished in paling furls in the puddles by his feet. The robber who’d shot his uncle was on his knees in front of him, brought down by a single hit to the gut.

“What did you do?” Tony asked, “When you found him?”

Peter wasn’t even focused in reality enough to consider lying. The truth didn’t make him look heroic, exactly, but he was lost in the memory.

“I hit him in the gut hard enough to rupture his appendix,” he said, and Tony’s eyes widened. “Then I tied him up and left him outside the police station. He confessed to a lot of crimes, and the last time I checked, he’s serving twenty-five in Brooklyn Correctional.”

Tony didn’t really know what to say. He almost felt like he should mention the violence Peter had used, but instead, he was impressed. He didn’t know if he could’ve done that, if their places had been swapped. True, it was only Peter’s uncle who died; but Tony knew that Ben Parker had raised Peter. There’d been a lot of love in that family; a lot that had been taken away.

Tony focused on Peter again, trying to root himself in reality. The kid’s eyes had watered, but Tony said nothing. He wasn’t exactly feeling up to life right now either.

After enough time passed to make it awkward, Tony finally coughed pointedly, and made a show of looking at his watch.

“Well, would ya look at the time. I’m starving. How about you order the food, and I’ll pick up all the spilled feelings, huh?”

Peter smiled, and to Tony’s immense relief, played along. “Sure. Chinese or Italian?”

“Italian. Anything but lasagna.”

“You got it,” he stood, and started up the stairs to give Tony some privacy. At the doorway, he paused, debating whether or not he should say anything. After a moment, he caved, and turned around.

“Hey, uh,” he didn’t know quite how to phrase it without sounding dumb, so he just spat it out and hoped for the best. “Thank you, for telling me that. It…means a lot.”

“Uh, ditto,” Tony replied, giving the kid a reassuring nod. He watched Peter jog up the stairs, and listened to his footsteps fade away. Once he was sure there was no-one in the lab but he, DUM-E, and the ghosts, he let himself break down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. Actually, no, I'm not.


	3. Saturday Night

Tony had been busy since the Civil War, to put it mildly. The initial things he had to do – paying to cover for the damage to the airport in Germany, smoothing things over with the UN, cooperating with the authorities – were eventually worked out. The later things he had to work with, like Peter and the amendments to the Accords, soon needed dealing with as well.

A few weeks later, just as things were winding down, Scott Lang turned himself in to the authorities. He allowed himself to be taken in, and requested a fair trial.

Tony stepped in the moment he heard the news. He tried not to muck up Scott’s case by getting too deeply involved, but he managed to find a reliable lawyer, Matt Murdock, to represent Scott in court, and managed to get a front-row seat as well.

He claimed ignorance. He said Captain America called and told him it was a matter of national security. He’d escaped with the other rogues, but when he got a broader look at what was going on, he decided to come clean. He’d done his stint in jail, and was finished with being on the wrong side of the law.

Secretary Ross was eager to put Scott down; to lock him away and throw out the key. The whole time Scott spoke, his beady eyes watched him. He was like a shark that had picked up the smell of blood; it turned Tony’s stomach to see.

Despite this, Scott gave an impassioned plea. He said he actually agreed with the Accords, and that he hadn’t been fully aware of what he was getting into. He just wanted to be apart of his daughter’s life.

The family was a huge turning point in his favor. When a man’s ex-wife is willing to speak up in his defense, you know he can’t be all bad. Her new husband, an FBI agent, and Scott’s daughter were present at every single hearing.

The judge took mercy. Scott got three years of house arrest, two years of probation afterwards, and continued allowed visitation with his kid. When the verdict came through, he cried. He hugged his daughter, his ex, and even the surprised lawyer who’d stood up for him. Even though he’d been watching from miles away in the compound, Tony gave a sigh of relief.

Ant Man himself didn’t seem like a bad guy. He was a thief once, sure, but Tony was an ex-weapons dealer. He didn’t get to talk. And anyone who might be readily available to help protect the Earth was, as far as Tony was concerned, worth looking out for.

That was some time ago. It was March now, and Peter’s school had just let out for spring break. He had two weeks of bliss to look forward to, and May had asked if Tony wanted him here for that time.

Tony had said yes. What could it hurt? He liked having the kid around. Though he warned them both that he might not be as readily available as he was on Peter’s visitation weekends. They were cool with that.

Now that things had loosened up slightly from the War, and Ross seemed to have settled, Scott Lang came back into Tony’s priority list. He figured he should at least try to build up a relationship there – it could be useful later.

He gave him a call. After the usual pleasantries (“ _Who is this? How did you get my number? This isn’t another prank, is it Louis?_ ”), Scott said he was prepared to meet Tony.

“ _I don’t know where I stand with you right now,_ ” he said, “ _I still don’t trust you. But I’m down for whatever could keep my kid safe, and there was definitely more to what Cap was up to than just politics. Come over this weekend._ ”

Tony was more than happy with that response. After all, he didn’t trust Scott yet either. ‘I’m willing to work with you’ was better than he’d been expecting, and he was eager to get started.

It was at the last minute when Tony told Peter where he was going. He perked up immediately.

“Please let me come with,” he begged, “Please. I have to meet the ant guy again. I have to know how he get’s bigger and smaller like that!”

“It’s simple quantum physics,” Tony explained, buttoning his suit jacket. “I could easily show it to you later. And no.”

“But if you know it so well,” Peter argued, “Why can’t _you_ make things bigger and smaller?”

Tony glared at him. Peter glared back. Sometimes he missed the hero-worship.

“You have five minutes to get decent shoes on.”

“Yes!” Peter yelled. “Thank you Mr. Stark. Thank you!”

He bolted, cornflakes forgotten on the table. Tony smiled, and shook his head. He wasn’t upset the kid was coming with, per se. It was just that Scott – who seemed like an excellent father – might call Peter and his presence in Germany into question. Whatever. He’d said yes to Peter, and to take that back now would be hell.

They arrived after a quick flight to California and a drive to the house; through all of which Peter was bouncing up and down in excitement. Tony was tired just looking at him. He hoped this meeting would be nice and short.

They walked up to the front door, Peter several steps ahead of him.

“Calm down, kid,” he said, “let’s at least pretend we’re professionals.”

“Right,” he answered, not calming down at all.

Tony rang the doorbell, then waited. A few moments past, with Peter looking up and down the street and rocking back and forth on his heels. Tony frowned, and rang again. Still, no-one came.

“It is Saturday, yes?” Tony asked, “I didn’t oversleep?”

Peter mimicked his confusion. “I’m pretty sure it is, yeah.”

Tony rang the doorbell a third time, and a second later, the door opened. Staring up at them with big brown eyes was Cassie Lang, Scott’s seven-year-old daughter. She grinned at seeing them.

“Hi,” Tony said, surprised. “Uh- is your dad home, by any chance?”

Scott appeared at the door, opening it fully. “ _Peanut,_ ” he chastised, giving her a sour look. She kept smiling, totally unrepentant.

“Sorry about that,” Scott said, gesturing for them to come in. “My ex is out of town, and this was kind of last minute.”

“It’s no trouble,” Tony replied, giving Cassie a small wave. He stepped in, and Peter followed closely.

“Hi,” he greeted, offering a hand, “I’m Peter.”

“Scott,” he answered, shaking the offered hand. “Uh, I didn’t know we’d have company.”

“Sorry,” Peter said, “I just really wanted to meet you. I’m a huge fan of the shrinking and growing thing. I was-”

“Kid,” Tony gently interrupted, “I’d love to let you go on, but Mr. Lang and I have some business to discuss.”

“Uh- yeah,” Scott said. “I’m afraid I’m not really an expert in the whole quantum physics thing; I’m just an electrical engineer. And I destroyed all the tech I had from Dr. Pym’s lab as a part of my plea deal. Sorry, kid.”

“Aw,” Peter answered. “Well, that’s okay. I’m still glad to meet you.”

“Likewise. Now, you wanted to talk?” he gestured to Tony, and the lounge to their right. Peter was about to follow when he felt a sharp tug on his shirt. It was Cassie, grinning at him excitedly.

“C’mon! you can play with me while the grown-ups talk.”

“Uh-” Peter didn’t quite know how to handle this. He looked at Tony, whose eyes now had a mischievous glint to them.

“Go on,” he said, “you really do need more friends your own age.”

Peter shot him an affronted look, and Scott conspicuously coughed into his hand. Reluctantly, Peter allowed himself to be dragged away from the superheroes, towards the staircase. It looked like he was going to have to catch up on what was said later.

Cassie lead him to her room, which was at the other end of a corridor. He walked through the door with ‘Cassie’ painted on it in brightly-colored letters. He stepped into, not a bedroom, but a jungle.

“Whoa,” he said, staring around.

“Do you like it?” Cassie asked from where she’d crawled onto the bed.

“Yeah,” he answered.

The room was about the same size as his, with a small, single bed tucked into one corner. It had green sheets and pillows, with a strong wooden frame. A wooden treehouse stood on one whole side of the room; a simple house, with a rope-bridge leading to a large branch that connected the two walls opposite the bed. On the other wall was a large window, letting sunlight in.

Everywhere he looked were bugs. Against the window was a two-foot by two-foot ant farm. On the wall above the bed was a display full of different butterflies. Hanging from the branch, at varying levels above the ground, were large glass jars filled with leaves and cocoons. A few actual, real moths and butterflies fluttered around the room. Both plastic and real plants covered everything not already decorated, and fairies were painted onto the wall.

“I’m guessing you like bugs,” Peter said, taking the room in.

“Yeah!” she answered. “They’re so bright and cool and weird. I love them!”

Peter grinned. “What’s your favorite type of bug?”

“I like butterflies,” she answered, “but if my daddy asks, the answer is ants.”

Peter laughed. “So, do you want to study bugs when you grow up?”

“Yeah. Along with all the shrinking and growing physics,” she said, “I want to be a superhero, but I think I’m gonna have to at least _pretend_ I have other plans.”

Peter finally relaxed, sitting cross-legged on the bed next to her. “Me too. Mr. Stark doesn’t stop me from super-heroing, but I think if I told him I wanted to be something normal, he’d throw a party to celebrate.”

“You’re a superhero?” she asked.

“Yeah, I am,” he answered proudly.

She looked him up and down. “I don’t believe you.” She decided.

“You don’t?” he feigned offense, clutching his chest in horror. “How _dare_ you! I’m going to have to _prove_ it to you.”  

“Yes!” she cheered.

Peter grinned, and checked his webslingers. He’d brought them with in case of trouble, along with his mask, but the actual suit he’d left at home. He stepped off the bed, and kicked off his shoes. He casually toyed with his wrists, smiling at her. Then, without warning, he flipped and stuck his feet to the ceiling, hanging upside-down.

She squealed with delight. “That’s so cool!”

“I know, right?” he said, equally excited.

“How are you doing that?” she asked, jumping off the bed.

“Get this,” he said leaning closer to her conspiratorially. “I’m half spider!”

She gasped, excited. She began firing off questions, eager to know more.

“Can you shrink down to a spider’s size? Can you control an army of spiders? Do you have webs? Do they come out of your butt?”

“Woah, woah,” he said. “No. They _do not_ come out of my butt. I do have webs though. But no spider army or shrinking powers. I’m not _that_ cool.”

“Webs?” she asked, “Show me the webs!”

Peter fwipped his hand, creating a long string connecting to the nightstand next to her bed. She fawned over them, poking it and pulling it.

“It’s really strong!” she exclaimed, “What’s it made of?”

“Lots of chemicals,” he answered, “Want to see more?”

He spent the next hour playing with the webs. He made hammocks and swings, trampolines and puppets. She was endlessly energetic and entertained. Quickly, he found himself liking her.

After an hour, she ran to the kitchen and brought them chocolate mousse. As they ate, they spoke.

“So, what do you want to be when you grow up?” she asked him, shoving more mousse into her mouth.

“I want to be a chemical engineer,” he answered. She perked up.

“My daddy’s an engineer!”

“Really?” he asked. “That’s so cool!”

“I want to be a bug-studier,” she said proudly.

“You mean an entomologist,” he said, “people who study bugs are called entomologists.”

“Ent-o-mol-o-gists,” she sounded out, cringing. “Why do you need such big words for science things. Why not just call them ‘bug-studiers’?”

“That _is_ what they are called, essentially,” Peter explained, “But in another language. The Greek people first started studying the world around them and writing it down. The word ‘ent’ means an insect of some sort, while ‘ology’ means ‘the study of’. That’s why so many scientific studies have ‘ology’ at the ends. Biology, geography, entomology.”

“Huh,” she said, “I didn’t know that. What do you call a scientist who studies other people?”

He thought for a second. “An anthropologist.”

“What about animals?”

“Zoologist.”

“Space?”

“Astrologist.”

“Monsters?”

Peter paused again. “Mythologist.”

“How do you know all this?” she asked.

“I read about it,” Peter answered.

She thought quietly for a second, and they passed into comfortable silence. Peter was almost done with his mousse when she asked, “what do you call someone who studies superheroes?”

Peter thought. And thought. He pulled out his phone and Googled, but he found nothing. “I don’t actually know,” he finally answered. “I don’t think that there _is_ a field for studying heroes.”

“Shouldn’t there be?” she asked, “I mean, there’s one for everything else, right?”

“It might fall under mythology,” he said, “or philosophy?”

“But _modern_ heroes,” she said, “Like Iron Man and Captain America.”

Peter considered this. “Actually, I think there should be a field for it. At the very least, they’re a social phenomenon that’s too consistent to be called a singularity. I don’t think that there is anyone studying who they are, where they came from, or why they’re here.”

“So what do we do?” she asked, “I mean, what happened when other people came across new fields?”

“They pioneered, and studied what they found,” Peter answered. “Maybe that’s what we should do. We should create a scientific field for heroes.”

She sat up straight now, grinning. Peter almost felt a tug of regret; he knew that look. That was Ned’s ‘I just got a new Lego set’ look. MJ’s ‘you just said something intolerant and now I have to tell you all the ways you’re wrong’ look. Peter wasn’t going to be allowed to sneak away from whatever happened next for at least a few hours.

He smiled. “Let’s start with a name, maybe?”

…

Tony glanced down at his watch, biting back a yawn. It was six already. He’d been here far, far longer than he’d ever intended.

Scott sprawled lazily over his chair, rubbing his temples. They had been speaking since two in the afternoon, and had yet to come to an agreement.

“I just don’t know, man,” Scott said. “Avenging, fine. Avenging I don’t mind. But there is very little you could offer to get me to tolerate Ross on a regular basis. Plus, I’m on house arrest. I’ll go to jail for a long time if I leave for anything other than the apocalypse.”

“That- okay. I get that,” Tony answered, “That makes sense. But would you at least say where Cap and the others are?”

“I told you,” he said, “Wakanda. They received refugee status there.”

“Your tech?”

“Destroyed.”

“Pym and Van Dyne?”

“They won’t talk to me anymore.”

Then they would fall into silence, or talk about something else, but would inevitably circle back to this conversation. Tony decided that Scott was honest and relatively trustworthy, but not right now. He wouldn’t step out of line and risk his relationship with his daughter. And, though he wasn’t Big Brother’s best friend, he was not about to cheat that system.

“Well,” he said, standing up. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Lang, but I think it’s time I took my leave.”

“Yes,” Scott agreed, standing up. “Yeah. I’ve got to get my kid ready for bed.”

Tony followed him up the stairs, and down the corridor. The sound of laughter echoed out of the room. Tony raised an eyebrow as Scott swung the door open, and saw both kids on their stomachs on the floor. Webs hang from everywhere, covering the room, draping over whatever it could reach. Peter was drawing on stolen pieces of printer paper, while Cassie had a large piece of green cardboard in front of her.

“Hey, Peanut,” he greeted, looking over the crayons, kokis, and pages on the floor with apprehension.

“Daddy!” she greeted, jumping up and running into his arms. Peter waved lightly at Tony from his place on the floor.

“What’ve you been up to?” Scott asked.

“We made a new science field!” Cassie answered excitedly.

“You did?” Scott asked, surprised. “Really?”

“Did someone say science?” Tony asked, leaning around Scott. “What kind of science?”

“It’s for my school project!” she said. “Come in! Come look!”

She grabbed them both and hauled them into the room towards the bed. They sat down awkwardly, trying to find a comfortable position. Cassie ran around setting up the board and grabbing printed out pages from the web. She grabbed some of her Avengers action figures and a book Scott recognized from his bookshelf: _History for Dummies_.

Peter shuffled out of her way, leaning back against Tony’s knee. Tony blinked at him, but didn’t flinch.

“For my project we have to pick a kind of science to talk about in class. I was gonna pick entomology, but I instead decided to pick superheroes!”

Tony grinned, and Scott beamed. Cassie continued on.

“I wanted to see if there was a study for superheroes, since they’re everywhere. Every city block basically has its own hero now, except for Manhattan, which has three a block.”

Tony laughed, nodding along. She’d been a bit nervous to begin with, but she’d relaxed now.

“Except, it turns out, there is no study for superheroes, despite the fact that,” she paused, looking at the board, “they are a huge phenomenon that has sprung up in the last century, have an extensive history, and is too widespread to be a singular event.”

Tony leaned forward, now paying close attention. Leave it to cute kids and science to make him forget social awkwardness. He raised his hand to ask a question.

She paused. “Yes?”

“Do you have a name for this new field?” he asked.

She seemed perturbed when he’d interrupted, but now she brightened.

“We called it ‘Odysseology’! The name is from the Odyssey, the first famous story about a group of superheroes.”

“That’s amazing, Peanut!” Scott encouraged, “go on.”

She pointed at different pages of the board as she went on. “In order to make it a proper science, we need to say what it is, where it came from, and what it changes about the world as we know it. That’s what Peter said, at least,” she said, and was met with many reassuring nods.

“So superheroes are basically people with special skills or knowledge who protect people from threats that normal law enforcement can’t handle. It is hard to say where it came from, but there have been tons of heroes throughout history: Moses, Joan of Arc, Hercules, and King Arthur, are some examples I found on the web. Recently though, they’ve exploded onto the world stage in huge numbers, from Captain America and the Hulk to smaller heroes like Ant Man and Spiderman.”

Peter grinned, giving her thumbs up, and Scott cheered.

“Obviously, it changes a lot about the world. Some people view them as dangerous and uncontrollable, while others see them as the only real defense Earth has. What cannot be argued is the difference they make to our daily lives.”

She smiled at them. “That’s all we have so far, though. What do you think?”

“I think it’s awesome!” Scott said, “I’m really impressed!”

Peter nodded enthusiastically. “I think you spoke really well!”

“I’m convinced,” Tony said, “Keep that up, and if I come around again, I’ll bring a suit of armor to show you.”

She squealed loud enough to crack glass. “Thank you!” She ran up to them, and all of them got a hug. Unfortunately, the sun had gone down by this point. The horizon still had shades of orange, pink, and purple, but even that was fading fast.

They said their goodbyes at the door, with Peter getting an extra hug as a thank you for helping with the project. They climbed into the limo that Tony called in comfortable silence, with Tony keeping an eye on Peter.

“What?” Peter asked suddenly, surprising Tony. He often forgot how attentive the kid was.

“Nothing,” he said, “I’m just glad you came along today.”

Peter grinned so widely his face looked like it would crack in half. They drove to the airport, and Peter passed out on the plane ride back. Tony decided they could spend the night in the plane, even when it landed; it was no less fancy than a hotel, and he couldn’t bring himself to wake him up. The kid’s ability to brighten up situations was amazing. _He_ was amazing.

Cassie Lang was, too. She’d pulled at Tony’s fear of what a future without the Avengers would look like, talking about superheroes. But her scientific interest, her enthusiasm, and her desire to learn showed him that the future generation’s hands were far from unable to hold the weight of the world. With Peter, Cassie, and even Harley leading the world’s newest age, how bad could it possibly turn out to be?

He slept peacefully that night, for the first time in a long time.

…

Tony rolled out of bed at nine in the morning, which for him, was like getting up at dawn. At about five, he’d been woken by Peter on the plane, and they’d taken a car back to the compound. Both had gone back to bed, given that it was a Sunday, and to the best of Tony’s knowledge, that’s where Peter still was. He sat up, stretched, and immediately thought of God’s gift to geniuses everywhere: coffee.

People liked to say that money made the world go ‘round. Others said love. Both of these, while feasible and noble theories, were incorrect. It was _coffee_ that made the world go ‘round; just ask anyone who’d ever had to pull an all-nighter.

He trotted down the hallway to the elevator barefoot, stretching as he did so. He relished the temporary silence; right now it was peaceful, but soon it would become eerie. F.R.I.D.A.Y. knew only to greet him once he’d at least poured himself something to drink, be it caffeinated or alcoholic, so his ride down to the private communal area was completely quiet.

The calm was broken by the _ding!_ Of the elevator reaching its destination, then the doors sliding back into the wall. Tony yawned, stepped out onto the plush carpet, and made a beeline for the coffee machine.

His phone ringing broke him out of his trance. He glared blearily at the ceiling even though he knew that wasn’t where F.R.I.D.A.Y. (or his phone) was located.

He tapped his earpiece – at least he’d left it in last night. That saved him a walk.

“You know who this is. How may I help you this fine Sunday morning?” he asked in the blandest, most melancholic tone of voice he could summon.

“ _Uh- hi,_ ” it was Scott Lang. “ _Bad time?_ ”

“No! No,” Tony said, sipping his coffee. “Fine. Better than fine. What’s up?”

“ _I was thinking about yesterday,_ ” he answered hesitantly. “ _Look, I’m staying as close to the right side of the law as I can here, but… as much as I want to be in my daughter’s life, I also want her to_ have _a life. So…” he sighed. “Put me down for ‘on an as-needed basis’ I guess. And you’re the one negotiating anything that requires me leaving the house._ ”

Tony pinched himself to make sure this was real. “That’s great! Thank you. Uh, if you don’t mind me asking, what changed your mind?”

They spent _four hours_ on this yesterday. What could’ve happened?

“ _To be honest, it was the kid. Peter._ ” Scott explained. Funnily enough, he hadn’t asked about Peter besides getting the name. They’d immediately started on negotiations, and afterwards, Tony and Peter had left pretty quickly.

“ _Just…Cassie hadn’t shut up abut him. Peter this, Peter that. Did you know Peter can walk on walls, dad? Why can’t you walk on walls?_ ”

Tony huffed a laugh. “Would it surprise you to know he gets that response from most people?”

“ _Not at all. I just figured if a kid that cool looks up to you that much, well…how bad can you be?_ ”

Tony softened, though he would never let anyone know how much. “Noted. Anything else I can do for you?”

“ _That’s it for now, I think, but if you come around again, you’d better bring a suit. She will not shut up about the suit._ ”

“I’ll bare it in mind,” Tony answered, “enjoy the rest of your house arrest, Mr. Lang.”

“ _You too,_ ” Scott answered, “ _wait, no- shit, forget I said that. Enjoy your weekend._ ”

Tony hung up the phone with a smile, and quickly sent a text to May. _Please let me buy your nephew a car for his sixteenth._

The reply came back five minutes later. _You’re teaching him to drive. He’s crashing your cars, not mine._

Tony smiled – he’d been doing that a lot lately. _Deal._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just watched Ant Man and The Wasp! I loved it. Ghost has to be one of the most well-developed and memorable villains - if she can even really be called that - in Marvel history. She's definitely up there with Loki, Thanos, and Obadiah Stane. And Hope Van Dyne is a gift from God himself.


	4. Pray for the Wicked

Has Peter mentioned lately that – for a supposed child prodigy – he made some pretty crappy life decisions?

Well, it was true. Peter was not a normal child. Most people who saw a giant explosion would go ‘ _oh, well, would ya look at that. Maybe I don’t need groceries just yet,_ ’ and then hightail it in the opposite direction as fast as humanly possible.

Peter? No. Peter went _towards_ the explosion, because Peter was a dumbass with no self-preservation skills, and a desperate need to prove himself. Mix that in with a splash of spider-powers, and a sprinkle of PTSD, and voilà: you have a full-fledged natural disaster on your hands.  

For the record, going missing was _not_ on today’s agenda for him. Though honestly, it may as well have been. The rate at which weirdness came at him was something of a concern.

It started with donuts. He and Ned were having an Overwatch marathon, as one does after finishing a hellish physics assignment, when Ned reached over to grab a handful of M&Ms and found the bowl empty.

“Dude!” he said, glaring at Peter. “I can’t believe you took them all! _Now_ how am I supposed to keep my energy levels up?”

To placate Ned, Peter said he’d buy them some donuts. There was a twenty-four-hour café right across from he and May’s apartment. He wouldn’t be gone longer than five minutes.

Then, as Peter forked five bucks for the donuts over to the exhausted cashier, a massive _BOOM!_ Shook the ground. He felt the tremor just before it hit, and braced himself. The cashier had no such luxury, but being a true New Yorker – and a seasoned retail veteran at that – she didn’t so much as flinch. She calmly waited for the shaking to stop, then handed over Peter’s fifty cents change.

Deeply concerned about the explosion, he grabbed his money, shoved it into his pocket, and ran outside with the donuts tucked under his arm. He patted his chest frantically, and was relieved to find the suit was still on. He wore it a lot under his clothes, even though it was a bit of a risk, because it made him feel safe; and as he’d learned with the Hulk and the Vulture, danger could come at you at any time.

He bounded onto a nearby rooftop, trying to get a good vantage point. He felt nothing shaking anymore, but once he jumped to yet a higher rooftop, he could see a sand-colored mushroom cloud coming up from Coney Island.

He flew past his apartment and chucked the donuts into Ned’s lap.

“Sorry, problem, gotta go, bye!” he yelled, barely slowing down as he swung past, headed for the beach.

“But who’s gonna be the Roadhog to my Junkrat?!” Ned called after him, sticking his head out the window to see what was up. Peter was already too far away to respond.

At first glance, everything looked okay; not that it meant a lot, since it was night. The rollercoaster was right where Peter had left it; the jaded seagulls picked at the cobblestone sidewalk for scraps, and the ocean was… well, the ocean. A handful of said seagulls flew off as Peter stole their perch on the Cyclone’s highest point, shooting him dirty looks and squawking mean things in seagull. The joke was on them. Peter didn’t _speak_ seagull.

He looked around, swapping to night-vision. His line of sight was bathed in shades of green, and he could now see exactly where the cloud of dust had come from.

“Uh, Karen?” he asked, crouching down lower to hide. “Thoughts?”

The fact that it took her a while to come back to him was not a good sign. “I…haven’t got any pertinent information on that…thing. Shall I call Mr. Stark?”

‘Shall I call Mr. Stark?’ was Karen’s version of ‘I don’t know, Google it’. Since she had access to the world’s entire database of information, it was never a phrase Peter liked hearing.

“Is he actually asleep right now?” Peter asked, “Cause if he’s actually sleeping, I’m not going to be the one who wakes him up.”

As Karen checked, Peter zoomed in on the…thing. The mask had face-reading software, so all Peter had to do was squint to see better. It was about the size of a minivan, and it had a scaly, slimy texture. The neon lights from the city bounced off it, making it look like a green, green, and green disco ball. The explosion seemed to have come from its landing, as it sat in the middle of a sandy crater.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. has confirmed that Mr. Stark is indeed asleep; but if that thing turns out to be dangerous, and he finds out you didn’t call, he will be _very_ upset.”

The thing moved suddenly, shooting out a tendril of gluey flesh, and sticking it to the ground in front of it. Peter nearly fell off the rollercoaster from fright.

It used the sticky tentacle to pull itself forward a foot or so. Then it peeled the limb off the sand, showing the grains now stuck on the underside, and slapped it down again. It hauled itself another foot forward.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, “call him.”

The mask’s phone rang in his ear as he nervously jumped down to get a better look. He landed maybe ten meters away, immediately dipping into a low crouch. He wished he’d picked a color-scheme other than bright red and bright blue. He might be a little less worried if he didn’t stick out like a sore thumb, even at night.

“Hey, kid,” Mr. Stark’s yawning face appeared in his vision, another unneeded jump-scare. “What’s up?”

“Uh, could you take a look through my mask’s display, please?” he asked, “‘Cause I don’t _quite_ know what I’m looking at, and it’s making me nervous.”

Tony stifled another yawn and scratched his ribs. He wore a loose, black vest and had a pair of goggles haphazardly shoved onto his head. He tapped something on a holo-display in front of him, and his eyes just about bugged out of their sockets.

“What the _ever-loving_ fuck?” he asked, “ _Where are you?_ Did you slip between dimensions while I was out?”

“Good theory,” Peter replied, “But I’m pretty sure I’m on Coney Island. Also-”

He didn’t finish, jumping as another tentacle popped out of its body and wrapped around his leg.

“ _What the shit,_ ” he cried, trying to yank his leg away. “ _What the-_ ”

“Kid?” Tony yelled. The screen buzzed out, but Peter could still hear him. “I’m on my way, just don’t-”

Peter didn’t get to find out what he shouldn’t do, because a bright white flash lit up from behind him, and the comm. unit cut out. The scales of the thing’s fleshy tentacle dug into his ankle, drawing blood, and no amount of yanking, pulling, or tearing was making it let go.

The glow behind him got stronger, and just as suddenly as it had grabbed him, the thing let go. Peter wasted no time yanking his foot back, and jumping up to grab the bottom of the rollercoaster’s tracks.

Two more pinpricks of light appeared from behind the monster, joining the first, and boxing it in a triangular shape. Peter looked down, trying to ignore the fact that his leg was on fire. Pain was seeping upwards, towards his knee, but he couldn’t focus on that right now.

Behind each gleam of light, he saw, was a man. The one closest to him wore a long cloak. It flared out behind him, catching the light.

“Karen?” he asked. She didn’t reply.

The glow blinked out in the wink of an eye, and when Peter’s vision adjusted, the thing was gone. All that was left to show it was there was the crater in the sand, a thin puddle of slime, and the three men – who’d all clearly been on their way to a late-night medieval LARP session when they’d got here. The one with the cloak was tall, with a mop of salt-and-pepper hair on his head. Though it was hard to tell from above, he seemed to be Caucasian. And he was walking up to Peter.

“Want to drop down?” he asked. The cloak flared around him even when there was no breeze, he noticed. How melodramatic can one person be?

“I should warn you,” he said, “Those beasts are venomous. It’ll start kicking in soon. You should get down before you fall.”

Peter felt okay – right now. But how long would that last? Maybe his immune system would kick it out? Assuming that Mr. Majestic down there was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing _but_ the truth, of course.

The two other men – one short, and a little chubby, the other tall, old, and thin – joined the first. They shared some quick words in a language Peter didn’t understand.

Once they were done, the short man reached his hand out, and swirled the other in a spiral motion next to it. Bright sparks appeared in the air in front of him, widening into a circle of pure white light. The two men walked through it, and vanished.

Peter was so enraptured with the display that he didn’t notice his grip slipping. His stomach jolted into his throat as he fell a good five meters to the ground. At the very least, he landed on sand; but still, that shouldn’t have happened. He would never just drop like that. Not without a warning.

He rolled over, having gracefully belly-flopped, and blinked up at the clear sky. A face – pale, with sharp cheekbones and a defined brow – appeared in his vision.

“Hi,” Peter said.

The man debated just walking away and saving himself the pain; but he’d taken an oath to help those in need, and although he wasn’t a practicing doctor anymore, he intended to uphold it.

“Hey,” he said, “mind if I take a look at that leg?”

“Uh…” suddenly, it was a little hard to think straight. His leg hurt a lot. The pain had creeped up to his knee now, and was growing more intense by the second. “I dunno, man. ‘M pretty comfy, ya know?”

Was something wrong with his speech? He felt like it was taking too long to get words out.

“You are also very poisoned,” the man said, “and you could easily die. So… please?”

Peter thought about this long and hard. The pain got worse. Much ow. Such sore. Oh, _God_ that hurt.

“M’kay,” he said, “but don’t move it, please. ‘S’not so good.”

“I can work with that,” he answered, and bent down to gently analyze Peter’s leg.

“Yup,” he said, startling Peter out of his almost-sleep. “It broke skin. You maybe have a couple of minutes before you lose consciousness. Will you let me take you back to my place, so I can fix you up?”

“Mmm,” Peter considered this. His brain was starting to hurt, and anxiety was creeping in. Who was this? Where was he? What was going on? Some latent instinct told him he had to make a ‘buy me dinner first’ remark, but he couldn’t seem to remember how to do that.

“Sure, man,” he decided, “Jus’ lemme…”

He trailed off. His vision blacked out, and the last sensation he felt was a pang of pain as warmth rolled over his body.

…

Dr. Steven Strange had quickly adapted to weird situations. He’d seen his fair share of bullshit. Untold horrors that would send most men running. He’d faced the dreaded Dormammu, had conquered the Belingr beast of the mirror dimension; he had even faced Wong before his first cup of green tea in the morning.

So, having to lay a teenager on the couch in the New York sanctum and pull Belingr venom from his leg, while Wong picked an antidote from the shelf, wasn’t out of the ordinary at all.

“This is it,” Wong said, setting a vial filled with clear, watery liquid next to Stephen.

“That’s all?” he asked.

“Yes,” he answered, “the whole thing. Pour half over the leg and half down his throat. I’ll tell the masters that we caught the beast.”

“Thank you,” Stephen said, doing as Wong instructed. The suit the kid wore got in the way, so Stephen tried to strip him first; a task harder than expected.

“C’mon,” he muttered. Out of ideas, and running out of time, he poked the kid in the chest to try and wake him up. _He_ could get the thing off, assuming the venom wasn’t too far along for that to work. He obviously wasn’t human, so hopefully he’d hold out for longer.

“S’m,” he mumbled from under his mask.

“I’m sorry?” Stephen asked, surprised.

“The s’mbol,” the kid muttered, “t’p the s’mbol.”

He did as asked, and the entire suit stretched and loosened. It now looked more like footie-pajamas than a high-tech combat-suit. Stephen easily stripped the kid down.

“Thanks,” he said. The kid didn’t respond.

Stephen poured half the vial on the leg, and the kid’s body twitched spasmodically. Stephen finally pulled the mask off to drip the rest down his throat, and cringed at how pale he was. His face had a sweaty, green sheen to it, and his lips were turning blue.

As soon as he was done, he pulled the kid completely free of the suit. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers under it, so Stephen covered him with a reluctant Cloak of Levitation.

Stephen quickly fell back into ‘doctor’ mode. He used the old grandfather clock on the wall to take the kid’s pulse (slow and thready), tried to figure the kid’s temperature without a thermometer (he almost scalded his hand), and checked his breathing (wheezy and shallow). He trembled and shook, and the cloak wrapped tighter around him. Stephen stood to fetch a notepad and pen, and jotted everything down.

He spent the entire night like that. He sat in the chair next to the couch, with his phone set on an alarm. Every half-hour, Stephen would recheck the kid’s temperature, pulse, and breathing. If something ever changed, the cloak slapped his knee, and he’d get up to see what was wrong.

It was touch-and-go for a long time. The kid was tough; but Stephen had underestimated how much venom had made into the kid’s bloodstream. Twice, he called Wong to ask if there was more. He rested a hand on the boy’s forehead, brow crinkled, and said that was all they had right now.

“I’m synthesizing more,” he said, “but it’ll be three days _at least_ before it can be used.”

Stephen nodded sharply. It wasn’t Wong’s fault, but as detached from his patients as he tried to be, Stephen still felt for them. He’d read up on the effects of Belingr venom. The kid would be screaming in pain right now; if not for his paralyzed vocal chords.

He looked at the kid’s drawn face, and felt something churn in his gut. He was about a year-or-so older than one of Stephen’s most memorable patients; a little girl he’d treated during his residency. She’d come in with forgetfulness, dizzy-spells, mood swings, and shaking limbs.

She’d been sent in for the works; blood-tests, MRIs, anything they could think of. She was one of the first patients he was properly in charge of, and he thought it would be an easy fix. Maybe she had a virus. Perhaps she had an undiagnosed mental illness. Surely, it wasn’t something unfixable; and that’s exactly what he’d told her parents.

He was right; and so very, very wrong. She did have a virus. But Stephen only found out which one it was when he tried to dribble some water down her throat, and she ripped her vocal chords screaming.

She had symptomatic rabies; and she was far past the point of saving. She died slowly, painfully, and with absolutely nothing anyone could do to help.

He’d been distraught. Looking back on it, the answer was so simple. It shouldn’t have taken the onset of hydrophobia to make him realize what she had. His senior doctor at the time – an incredibly strict Indian woman – took his hands and made him look her in the eyes.

“She _came in_ symptomatic,” she said, voice terse and leaving no room for argument. “There was nothing we could ever have done. Her only hope had been a vaccine; one she didn’t get. She was untreatable long before we even knew she existed.”

Still, the way she’d screamed haunted him for months. He woke up in a cold sweat more often than he slept peacefully. It was always worse on the days when he went in for his own shots; he’d interacted with her, and although he’d followed every hygiene rule they had, they’d still rather be safe than sorry.

The alarm beeped at him, scaring him out of the memory. He grabbed it and shut it off with shaking fingers, not from the nerve damage. He took several deep breaths, and drained the last dregs of his cold tea to steady his thoughts.

Slowly, Stephen saw the sky start to lighten through the tall windows on the east side of the study. He double-checked the kid’s readings once more, comparing them. His pulse was steadier; but his fever was still miles too high, and that breathing was worrying him. As much as Stephen hated it, it was down to the kid to fend off the rest of the venom. His powers – whatever they were – were helping; but Stephen thought it might take more than that to keep him alive.

Stephen fiddled with the suit to keep his hands busy, folding and re-folding it. The kid clearly had a thing for spiders – and probably some _ridiculously_ rich parents. The thing was high-tech, soft and flexible, but tough. Stephen hadn’t been able to rip the thing off, no matter how hard he’d tried. It was also molded exactly to the kid’s body; when Stephen pressed the symbol on the chest again, it tightened and hardened into a kid-sized shell, matching the boy’s dimensions perfectly. Where could he get something like this?

Stephen was about to lay the thing back down when he noticed something on the left sleeve. A small, oval-like piece of machinery sat on the inside of the wrist. Both arms had one, but this one had a small, blinking red light.

Stephen peered down at it, curious. That was only a moment or so before the building shuddered, rocked to its foundations, by a massive explosion outside.

…

Wong stood in the foyer of the New York Sanctum, watching the large door quake and shake under the brutal assault. He tucked his scrolls under his arms, and waited. The force trying to bring their door down was strong, but the enchantments holding the door closed were too. It was only a matter of seeing which one won, and acting appropriately.

Wong had faced many attacks and assaults aimed at Kamer-Taj. Ninety percent of the time, no-one even made it inside.

Then, for a second, everything went still. The door stabilized, and the air rang from the sudden lack of noise. Wong was about to walk away when a massive beam of light hit the door, making it jolt. Heat rolled over him in powerful waves, and the light grew blindingly bright. With a massive _BANG!_ The door gave in, incinerated into dust.

Wong held his ground, throwing one arm over his eyes, and turning slightly so that his body was in front of the scrolls. When the light and sound faded, he blinked into the smoking hole that was once a door.

With a metallic whirring, a suit of armor a good foot taller than Wong stepped into the hall. Gleaming blue eyes shone out of a stern mask, and dust billowed through Wong’s robes. It was black and navy blue, with a silver center-piece holding a glowing blue light. The suit raised its hands, showing a glowing ring on each palm.

“I’m going to ask you this one time,” the suit said in a menacing, tech-muffled voice. “Where. Is. The kid?”

“The kid,” Wong echoed calmly. “The one in the bright red and blue suit?”

“That’s the one,” the suit answered.

“In his mid-teens?”

“Yup.”

“No self-preservation skills?”

“That’s him.”

Wong shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

The suit powered up, and fired enough arc-reactor energy at him to incinerate an asteroid. Wong wasn’t bothered – he raised a hand and opened two small portals, one right in front of him, and one right behind Iron Man’s lower back.

The suit was shot right into the ceiling, and then unceremoniously dropped to the ground. The marble floor now had spidery cracks winding out from where he’d landed. Dust and cracked plaster rained down on top of him, marring the suit’s black and blue paint job.

 _Note to self,_ Tony thought, struggling to his feet. _Watch out for… whatever the fuck that was_.

He turned to see Wong standing with his back to the door-sized hole Tony had entered through, utterly unfazed. This time, Tony charged, forgoing the laser-beams. He powered up his thrusters and lunged.

Wong was ready. He put his hands together and then pulled them apart, creating a long strand of bright orange sparks. By the time Tony noticed the new development, it was too late.

Wong lashed, sticking one end of his ‘rope’ to the center of Iron Man’s torso, right over the arc reactor. Then he attached the other end to the floor, and ducked.

Iron Man flew right over his head, came to a strained, stuttering halt, and then ricocheted in the other direction. He crashed into the staircase on the other end of the foyer from the door, ruining architecture several thousand years older than him.

“Power at fifty-nine percent, Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said.

“Thanks,” he replied, “that’s helpful.”

Tony got back to his feet unsteadily.

“Are you finished?” Wong asked, wiping an imaginary piece of lint from his right shoulder.

“Not by a long shot,” Tony replied. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

A new voice joined in from the top of the stairs. “We saved his life.”

Tony spun around, and blinked the sunrise out of his eyes. Standing in front of a large, ornate window, was a tall man in navy robes, looking like a younger, hotter version of Gandalf.

“Did I miss a dress-code announcement?” Tony asked, “is this a medieval wizards’ convention or something?”

“Or something,” the man droned. “Are you here about the boy?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “hand him over.”

“Are you planning on hurting him?”

“What?” Tony asked, patience wearing thinner by the second. “No.”

Tony couldn’t see the man’s face because of the lighting, but he seemed to consider Tony carefully.

“It’s alright, Wong,” he called out, speaking to the man in the doorway. “I’ll take it from here.”

Wong nodded, and continued on his way, with Tony watching suspiciously till he was out of sight.

“With me, Dr. Stark,” the tall man said.

Tony debated shooting him; but this place looked huge, and Tony wanted to have Peter back at the compound as fast as possible. His suit’s last vital readings made Tony want to puke. He needed to get him to a hospital.

He clanked up the steps two at a time, a sight that was probably pretty funny given the bulk of his suit, and came to a stop in front of the man.

“I know you from somewhere,” Tony said. He could look the man in the eyes, which meant without the suit, he would stand a good four or five inches over Tony.

“My name is Dr. Stephen Strange,” he said, raising one well-defined eyebrow, “you invited me to a few of your parties, back when Stark Industries still sold weapons.”

Tony remembered now, and almost – _almost_ – laughed. _That_ Dr. Strange couldn’t have been more different from this guy.

“How the hell did you wind up here?” he asked, “more specifically, in _that?_ ”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied smoothly, “come with me, please.”

Without checking to make sure Tony followed, he walked down the hall to the right of the stairs, down a long corridor. Antiques lined the walls, some moving and chattering in a way Tony did not like. He clanked along after the doctor, keeping him well within reach.

“What did you mean when you said you ‘saved his life’?” He asked.

Dr. Strange sighed, considering his words carefully. “We lost something.”

Tony waited for a moment. Then two. “And what does this have to do with _him?_ ”

“It’s called a Belingr,” Strange said. “They look like large, scaled hunks of slime. One turned up on the beach of Coney Island last night.”

Tony made a note of that.

“They’re incredibly venomous,” Strange went on, “they can kill in moments. This is the only place on the continent with an antidote.”

“Okay,” Tony said, “assuming I buy that, what state is he in right now? Is the antidote working?”

“Yes,” Strange answered, “and if he makes it through the next few hours, he’ll make a full recovery. But-”

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Tony stopped Strange with a large metal hand on his shoulder. “‘If’? What do you mean, ‘if’?”

“He got a lot of venom in his system,” Strange explained calmly, “he made it through the night, so his chances are _excellent;_ but we only had so much antidote on us. A few of our people got caught by one a few days ago, and the antidote we have in the works right now won’t be ready for two-and-a-half more days.”

The suit went so still Strange almost thought it malfunctioned. Magic did that to technology sometimes, when it got close enough. “Where is he?”

“Right in here,” he opened a set of tall, wooden double-doors, and entered his favorite study.

The kid was lying exactly as he’d been left; curled on his side on the large futon, breathing shallow, raspy breaths and staining the cloak with sweat. Iron Man didn’t wait; he barged right past Strange and kneeled at the kid’s side.

“Oh, God,” he murmured. Peter’s face had no blood in it whatsoever. His blue lips were cracked and bleeding, and his damp hair clung to his forehead. He shook with each painful breath.

“He should be in a hospital,” Iron Man hissed, turning to glare at Stephen.

“Normally, I’d agree,” he answered, “but moving him right now is a bad idea. Nothing they could give him would help, anyhow. His best bet is to stay close to where the new antidote is being made, and resting as much as possible.”

The suit, in an unexpectedly gentle move, tucked a clump of wet hair away from the boy’s forehead. Stephen watched this, taking it in with interest. This was…a surprise. He didn’t want to make assumptions – as a doctor, those could be lethal – but between the boy’s suit, the sudden arrival, and this, he was starting to form a picture of what might be going on here.

“What’s his name?” Stephen asked.

The suit paused, glowering at him with one gleaming eye-socket.

“Peter,” he answered.

Stephen nodded sharply. “He’s in the best hands,” he reassured. He wished that helped, but he knew it would fall shallow.

“How do I know that for sure?” Iron Man stood, suit shifting seamlessly with his body, and strode over to Stephen. “How do I know any of this-” he made a wide gesture to indicate the whole place “-is anything but a giant ticking time-bomb waiting to blow up in humanity’s face?”

“I suppose you don’t. But unlike most of humanity, _I_ don’t work for you.” Stephen was letting himself get carried away. His biggest fault as a doctor, he’d always been told, was empathy. Someone needed a bullet pulled from their head? No problem. You want him to _sympathize_ with another person? Good _fucking_ luck.

“You can take him, if you like,” he said, making a flippant gesture. “I saw his suit. He’s clearly with you. But he won’t last long out there.”

A long, tense moment passed between them, before Iron Man (to Stephen’s surprise more than anyone else’s) backed off.

“Fine. But if he dies, I’m ripping this place apart.”

With that, the suit stormed back to the couch, and started disassembling.

He sighed, and turned to go tell Wong about the new arrangement. The sooner the kid was cured, the sooner Stephen could chuck Tony Stark to the curb and get back to his regularly-scheduled bullshit.

It was going to be a long day.

…

Stephen had often heard the phrase ‘doctors make the worst patients’. He supposed there was a touch of truth to it; he himself was an absolute prick. Although he and Christine were on good terms now, it came as no surprise that she didn’t want to restart a relationship with him.

However, in his experience, the worst cases happened when a fellow doctor’s loved one was the patient. Every ounce of sense and rational thought fled their bodies. God forbid it was a child in danger; that just turned them from paranoid, over-educated pests to frothing-at-the-mouth nutcases who needed restraint.

Stephen decided, after the last day’s exploits, that the ranking needed to be changed. It was not doctors who were the worst loved ones to deal with; it was bratty, billionaire inventors.

By the time Stephen made it back, the suit had been officially retired. It stood stationary, the front of it peeled open, eyes dark. Tony Stark, dressed in an expensive but rumpled suit, sat in the chair with his phone to his ear. Stephen only caught the tail-end of the conversation.

“…wish I knew,” he was saying, “but he’s alive, and they _say_ he’ll be fine. Yes?”

He sighed. “You’ll be the first to know if something changes… Yeah, I wish he would to.”

With that, he hung up, and leaned heavily back into the chair.

“Would you like some tea?” Stephen offered, settling into another chair on the opposite side of the futon. This study was often used for meetings; Stephen just had to think of this as another one.

Stark glanced at him, and Stephen was surprised by his appearance. He was underweight and sickly-looking, with dark circles under his eyes. On the TV, he never failed to look right as rain. Clearly that was only a performance.

“I’m not much of a tea drinker,” he said.

“What would you like, then?”

He thought a moment. “Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. Extra shot of cream, extra shot of whiskey; _preferably_ Jameson.”

He expected Tall, Dark, and Dumbledore to tell him to fuck off; instead, he felt a sudden weight appear in his hand. He looked down at the gently steaming cup of coffee, before glancing at Strange, who was placidly drinking his tea.

He took a tentative sip, half expecting it to be poisoned; it was exactly what he’d asked for.

“Alright,” he said, “I’m impressed. Who are you people?”

“This is Kamer-Taj,” Strange explained, “It’s an order that has protected the world from invaders and threats from other dimensions since the dawn of civilization.”

“Uh huh,” Tony said, “and where were you, exactly, when aliens were pouring out of the sky?”

“We protect the world from extra- _dimensional_ threats, not extra- _terrestrial_ ones. That’s your job.” Strange took another sip from his mug, and Tony stared blandly. _I’m a nice person_ , he thought. _Nice people don’t bludgeon other people with cups filled with perfectly good coffee._

“So if the problem doesn’t fall under your umbrella, you just… Let it hit the Earth?”

“No,” Strange answered “we knew of S.H.I.E.L.D.. We even had our own people _in_ S.H.I.E.L.D., keeping an eye. If something went wrong, and we could’ve helped, we would’ve.”

Tony stood up, and started pacing. “So this is…some kind of…what exactly? A cult?”

“It’s not a _cult,_ ” Stephen defended, “it’s a secret society-”

Wong came in, interrupting them.

“Hong Kong just got back to us. They caught their Belingr; no casualties, no-one envenomated.”

Stephen sighed in relief. “Thank God. We’ll be here a while longer. Tell me if something changes?”

Wong nodded sharply, and left.

“I don’t mean to sound judgmental,” Tony said, “but has it occurred to you that you might not be so good at your job?”

“And you’re so much better?” Stephen asked, meeting his eyes steadily. “Where is _your_ team, again?”

They glared at each-other from across the room, neither willing to give in to the other. The spell was broken by a whimper from Peter, sending Tony back into concern-mode.

Stephen chastised himself for allowing himself to get pulled into an argument. This post-accident him was supposed to be a _better_ him; no ego, no selfishness, no superiority-complex. He couldn’t even blame Stark; he had a reputation for starting trouble, sure, but someone he cared about could lose their life at any moment. _No-one_ would be at their best.

He raised a hand, and refilled Tony’s coffee for him. The man stared at it as he sat back on his chair, one eye on Peter.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, taking a sip.

Stephen nodded mutely, settling back in his chair.

Five minutes later, his alarm rang. Stark jumped like he’d been prodded, nearly spilling coffee on himself. Trying not to smile at his cursing, Stephen stood and shakily began taking Peter’s vitals, running through the familiar routine easily.

“I heard about that,” Tony said, gesturing to Stephen’s hands. “The nerve damage. Pretty intense stuff.”

Stephen nodded stiffly, not liking where Tony was going. He finished counting while watching the clock, fingers pressed into Peter’s neck. Tony wordlessly passed him the notepad and pen that had been on the table.

“His vitals are slowly smoothing out,” Stephen said, scribbling down the details. “Compared to when he came in, he’s getting marginally better.”

“This is okay,” Tony replied, studying the page, and the one before it. “I’ve taken his base vitals. He’s been worse than this.”

“Really?” Stephen asked, intrigued. “Can you elaborate?”

“He’s not superhuman,” Tony explained, “he’s a mutant. His genetic structure itself has been altered. His pulse can drop to three beats a minute during REM sleep, and he heals incredibly fast. He’s shrugged off crushed bones and stab-wounds in days. Not even a scar.”

Stephen thought this over carefully, the gears in his head spinning rapidly. “That’s incredible. Something like that could _revolutionize_ medicine. With just a bit of blood-”

“No,” Stark cut him off sharply, “absolutely not. Already, people have started trying to get a hold of his DNA. Do you know how many kidnapping attempts I’ve had to nip in the bud?”

He shook his head. “Captain America, at least, can _protect_ himself. This kid is giving me more and more grey hairs every passing second.”

Stephen gazed at him. He wanted to insist; he could think of so many people who could benefit from this. But he could see the look on Stark’s face; he wouldn’t back off on this. He wanted to think it was selfishness, but most of the technology used by Stephen in his practicing days were Stark-built. He didn’t have room to speak on this matter.

“Okay,” he said, “alright. What can you tell me about his resting body temperature?”

They went back-and-forth. They spoke somewhat, they checked his vitals, and sat in uncomfortable silence for most of the day. The best part, in Stephen’s humble opinion, was when Tony tried to take Peter’s vitals himself, and Levi slapped his hand away. He jumped back with a high-pitched yelp.

“It’s okay, Levi,” Stephen said, “let him.”

The cloak stayed still for a moment, then floated up, unwrapping from Peter’s body. It floated right above him, parallel to the ground, ready to snap back over him at a moment’s notice. It took its job of minding Peter seriously.

“What the fuck,” Tony hissed under his breath. “What the _fuck_.”

“This is the Cloak of Levitation,” Stephen explained, “it’s a relatively-sentient enchanted object. They’re housed in this Sanctum. Levi is one of the more…enthusiastic ones.”

“Right,” Tony answered, “naturally. Of course.” He gulped, taking a deep breath. He could science the shit out of this later, once Peter was better.

Stephen never really remembered falling asleep in the late afternoon. Slowly, over the course of the day, Peter stabilized. His shakes eased noticeably, his face went from green to simply pale, and his lips turned pink again, the chapped scabs fading. By the time mid-afternoon rolled around, Stephen had relaxed. If something was going to go wrong, it would’ve by now.

The sun had started to set when the alarm jarred Stephen awaked. In the chair ahead of him, Stark cringed and groaned. He’d been asleep as well.

“I’ve got it,” Stephen said, feeling awkwardly like a new parent exchanging turns to soothe the baby with a spouse. Stark nodded, settling back down. Stephen stood and stretched, plucking up the notepad and pen. He turned to the couch, and suddenly found himself very, very awake.

The couch was empty.

“Um…Stark?” Stephen asked, “Does your kid have a tendency to…wonder off?”

Tony’s eyes snapped open, horrified. He shot up.

“When I get a hold of him…” Tony grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Does your cloak sometimes kidnap people?”

“…Yes,” Stephen answered hesitantly, “but she rarely flies off without telling me.”

“He…” Tony clenched his fists, taking a deep breath. “Where’s the highest point in this sanctum? That’s where he’d go.”

“The greenhouse,” Stephen answered, “This way.”

They made their way up another two staircases and endless corridors. Tony was absolutely certain the building was not this big on the outside. What was this, the Tardis?

His heart was beating hard. He didn’t know if he was angry, scared, or just emotional due to exhaustion. What he wouldn’t give for a shot of vodka right about now.

Finally, they made their way to the end of a long corridor. Stephen waved a hand, and a trap door dropped, lowering a steep, wooden staircase.

“You must be popular at kids’ parties,” Stark said, already climbing the stairs. Stephen followed with a huff, now too tired to let himself get baited.

They stepped up into a massive jungle. Hard, wooden tables supported large pots, over-flowing with every kind of plant. Shades of green shifted in front of Tony’s eyes. The setting sun cast a fiery orange glow over everything, gleaming through from the west. The room itself was a dome, made entirely of glass. It smelt like compost, and a sweet smell that reminded Tony of Clint’s farm.

It wasn’t hard to find Peter. He sat in the middle of the room, on a wooden stool, staring intently at a small bonsai tree. The entire table was filled with them. The Cloak of Levitation flapped in an intangible breeze, resting loosely on his shoulders. The only other thing he wore was his boxers, which made a unique fashion statement. Only a few steps away, a tall, Tibetan man in purple robes was filling up a watering can.

The man looked up at them, put the can down, and walked over.

“He’s ill,” he said, before they could get a word in.

“Belingr poison,” Strange answered, “I thought you’d been informed?”

“Not ill like that,” he said, turning to Tony. “He is… Confused. His grasp on reality is loose. I cannot explain it.”

The man stepped aside, allowing Tony to walk past him to get to Peter. He approached slowly, doing his best not to startle the kid.

“Hey,” he said, gently setting a hand on Peter’s shoulder, “Hey, kid. How’s it going?”

No reaction. He could hear the magicians conversing in quick, worried words behind him. He stepped closer, gently shaking Peter’s shoulder.

“Kid?”

“Stark,” Strange came up next to him, “when Peter gets injured, what do you give him?”

“What?” he asked.

“When he gets injured,” Strange explained, “or sick. What do you give him? Pethidine, morphine, cortisone? And how much?”

“Nothing,” Tony answered, “he’s not human. The chemicals don’t bind to his body the right way. We’ve tried everything we can think of; nothing works. His immune system tends to just…compensate on its own.”

Stephen nodded slowly, thinking.

“’M really proud of her,” Peter muttered, fighting down a yawn.

“What?” Tony asked.

“The _tree,_ ” he said, referring to the bonsai in front of him. It had somehow managed to grow a proper sized apple, shining red in the afternoon light. “She had one job, and she did it. ‘M really, _really_ proud of her.”

Tony gaped. He looked at Stephen, waiting for an explanation that would perfectly describe what… _that_ was.

“I don’t think it’s dangerous,” Stephen said, “he simply hasn’t got a proper tolerance to medication. He has a completely clean immune system. As a result, the antidote knocked him a bit; more so than if he were normal.”

“So…” Tony edged.

“He’s high as a kite,”

“Ah.” Now that, Tony could work with. He’d experimented in his youth. This he could handle; just agree with everything they said, and put a pot of pasta on the stove.

“On the plus side, the fact that he’s up and walking means he’s definitely well enough to go home. I’d be more comfortable with him staying the night, however, just to be safe. By tomorrow, he should be a little more aware.”

Tony considered this, looking down at Peter’s vacant expression.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “I don’t think a night here will kill us. Thank you.”

Stephen nodded, and went to make the necessary arrangements. Master Wu and he shared a few quick words, and Stephen thanked him for keeping an eye on Peter.

Tony noticed that Peter’s eyes had started to water. “What’s up, kiddo?” He asked.

“I’m really hungry,” he said, “and I _really_ want that apple. But she worked _so hard_ to grow it.”

Tony sighed, sympathetic. “C’mon. I’ll bring you an apple pie if you come to bed.”

Peter sniffed, and let himself be guided back down the staircase. Tony shared a look with Strange as they passed, and made a note to send the guy a fruit basket and some wine. Did he drink wine? He looked like he did, but for all Tony knew, he was a monk now or something.

God, what _he_ would give for a glass of wine. The stress this kid gave him. Is this what fatherhood would be like? He’d never be able to deal with it.

He managed to get the kid back onto the couch with a sworn promise on his mother’s health that he would be back with pie, and in no time, the kid was asleep. Tony smoothed his hair off of his forehead, and gently tucked the cloak back around him. He sighed and fell back into his chair.

He had to call May. And Pepper. And arrange a fruit basket for Strange. And he had to find pie.

But first; sleep.

…

The next morning, the kid remembered nothing except craving apple pie, and feeling like he really needed to fetch donuts for some reason.

Fuck Tony’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wong is love. Wong is life. Wong is... so fucking done.


	5. One of The Drunks

“Whoa!”

Peter had swung by almost too fast to see what was going on. Despite his momentum and speed, he managed to swing himself around and make his way back to the disaster zone.

Overturned cars, cracked sidewalks, and countless broken things greeted him. Pools of dried blood seeped into the cracks of the pavement. An eerie silence perforated this street, although around the corner and a couple of meters ahead, Queens was carrying on with its daily routine. Maybe it was acclimatization, or perhaps sheer ignorance, but this didn’t concern anyone who didn’t live in one of the apartment buildings lining the street itself. Peter could still hear feet padding on cement and countless conversations, even though here, not even the pigeons made a peep.

It was a fairly long, somewhat narrow street, identical to the millions of others around. It was only broad enough for two thin sidewalks and two very careful cars to drive by each-other.

Deeply disturbed, Peter climbed down from his perch atop one of the buildings, and landed on the tarmac without a sound. To his back was the turn and alleyway that lead to normality; the rest of the quiet lay ahead.

He walked slowly, turning as he did so, trying to take in as much of the area as he could. The sky was overcast, but mostly cloudy, and somewhere in the far distance, thunder boomed. A chill that would’ve normally cut him to the bone was nothing compared to his suit’s heater, but still; he shivered.

Up above, makeshift clotheslines swayed in the wind. A few leaves and a chip packet flew by him on a deceptively gentle breeze. A streetlight had been knocked down, and had fallen onto a vendor’s cart. The light was still on, though it flickered. Still, he heard nothing.

He circled around one upside down Volvo that was smoking. The driver’s door had a broken window, and scuff marks and blood showed that someone had crawled out and bolted. Not a good sign.

As he moved to step away, his foot scraped on some glass, making it crack. In the small street the crack sounded loud; but not loud enough to drown out a small squeak that came from the backseat of the car.

Peter froze, and slowly bent down to peer in through the window. This one had been rolled down, so there was no shattered glass, but whoever was inside hadn’t run. Either they’d been unable to, or too scared to. Peter didn’t know which he’d prefer.

When he looked in, a pair of huge brown eyes watched him with absolute terror. A pair of poofy pigtails and a small pink coat confirmed what he’d thought; it was a kid. A little girl, by the looks of it. She tried to scuffle back farther into the backseat – away from him – but there wasn’t a lot of options for her to take. She was already tucked as far into the corner as she could get.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice low and soft. He got down on his hands and knees. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She tried in vain to blend with the dark leather. It didn’t work.

Peter glanced at the small backpack next to her, and found her name. _Riri Williams._

“Riri?” he asked, and she froze. “That’s your name, right? Riri?”

She nodded stiffly, but didn’t come any closer.

“I’m Spiderman,” he said. “I just want to help. I can get you somewhere warm and safe, and then I can help you find your parents, okay? Can we do that, please?”

She looked tempted, and seemed to mull it over; but after a second, shook her head. Peter sighed. It was now that he looked at her hands, and his eyes widened marginally. Despite her dark skin, he could clearly see her fingertips were turning blue. It was early on a Saturday when Peter first jumped out his bedroom window; all this carnage could’ve happened last night. She could’ve been freezing there for hours. She needed medical attention.

“Look, Riri,” he said, “I know you must be frozen stiff. If you come out of there with me, I have a heater you can use to warm yourself up a little. In fact, I could pass it to you now, if you like. Can we do that?”

She considered, then nodded slowly. Peter reached the back of his head and pulled his mask off, giving her a small smile. He handed the mask to her, and she gingerly reached out and took it. She shoved her stiff fingers into it, and visibly unclenched.

He was right about the cold. Immediately, his cheeks burned from the icy breeze.

“Alright,” he said, “your turn.”

She studied him closely, looking him up and down. For a moment, she leaned forward and reached her arms out; then her eyes widened at something behind Peter. The sun chose that moment to come out and hit the car, and Peter realized too late that a shadow had fallen over him.

A hand like steel gripped the back of his neck, yanking him up, and another closed around his throat. He was spun around with a yelp, and his back hit the tyre of the Volvo. His Spidey-senses triggered too late for him to properly respond.

His first instinct was to kick out and put some distance between him and whoever this guy was, but an _unholy_ stench distracted him long enough for the guy to press his body against Peter and pin him in place.

Peter gagged, and a face was pressed up against his.

“Who are you?” The man demanded, his breath temporarily blinding Peter. He was hairy, with a messy brown-black beard and finger-combed hair. His voice was raspy and husky, like he’d been eating sandpaper, and his whole face was smeared with dirt and blood.

Peter made a choking noise that would’ve been an answer, if he could talk around his closed airway.

The man huffed, like a bull about to charge, but his grip on Peter’s throat loosened minimally. “Spi-man,” he choked out. “Spiderman.”

His dark, beady eyes narrowed. God, he reeked. How did someone even survive smelling that bad? Just touching him made Peter want to take a shower. Or three.

“What’re you doing here, you little punk?” he asked. “You’re like, twelve.”

“Fifteen,” he spat, offended. The man looked dangerously close to an eyeroll.

The feeling of his body pressed against Peter’s suddenly disappeared, and Peter’s feet hit the tar. His knees quickly followed, having landed awkwardly, and he coughed.

Peter glanced inside that car, and saw that Riri had pressed herself back to the seat. She watched him fearfully, though now it was more _for_ him than _of_ him. He gave her a shaky smile, and looked back up at the man.

He was already walking away; though limping might be a better word. He wasn’t making good speed.

“Wait!” he yelled, jogging after the guy. “Wait. What happened here?”

“Go home,” he answered without looking at him.

 _“Hold on,”_ he insisted, jumping ahead and planting himself in front of him, trying not to gag at the smell. The man stopped.

Was this Peter’s brightest decision? No. But he wasn’t exactly known for those to begin with, so he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over that.

“What happened here?” Peter demanded, not moving even as the guy loomed over him threateningly.

To Peter’s surprise, the man sniffed deeply, studying him with distaste and annoyance. Suddenly, he froze.

“Duck.”

“What?”

Something hit Peter like a sack of bricks, knocking him to his right and leaving him reeling. His Spidey-senses buzzed a second too late; that, or the speed on whatever hit him was _amazing_. He rolled into the wall, and wound up on his stomach. His ears rang, but he still picked the sound of a fight. Deep, animalistic growls and bodies being chucked heavily into walls. Screeching metal joined the fray, and Peter’s heart nearly stopped.

The kid. Riri. Had she run? He doubted it.

He crawled to his feet and was running before he even had his bearings. He couldn’t really tell where the car was, but he knew (roughly) where he’d been thrown from and which direction he’d walked in. He wasn’t quite clear on how, but he ended up dropping to his knees in front of the car.

She was still there, huddled close to the seat. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she had his mask clenched in her fists. Tear-streaks marked her face.

“It’s okay,” he said, “Riri? It’s me.”

She blinked her eyes open, and Peter could see how scared she was. Her whole body shook.

“Look, it’s not safe here,” he said. “I’m coming in there to get you, and then we’re getting out of here, okay?”

Outside, worryingly close, something hit the pavement hard. Riri jumped at the sound, and Peter could tell she wasn’t about to move on her own. He was sorry, but he couldn’t wait. He reached forward to grab her, but something grabbed him first. His Spidey-sense spiked, but he was used to criminals that moved far slower than this one did.

A large, strong hand yanked him out and away from the car by his ankle. Peter yelled in shock, and was quickly silenced by a hand clamped around his mouth. He was pulled up, and his back was tightly pressed to someone’s chest. A massive arm pinned his arms to his side, restricting any movement but his legs.

When Peter could see straight again, the bearded man from before was crouched in front of him, growling, but unmoving. Long, slim, shiny blades extend from between the knuckles of his hand; three apiece. Peter’s shock quadrupled. He’d clearly walked in on something _way_ above his usual, run-of-the-mill conflict.

Peter’s first thought was: It’s the Hulk.

The man holding him was huge. If they were standing side by side, maybe Peter would’ve stood as tall as his ribcage. _Maybe._ His grip was cutting off the circulation to Peter’s limbs, and Peter could feel the behemoth’s massive heart beating like a base drum through the back of his suit.

“That’s what I thought,” he deeply, rumbling voice growled. Peter could feel the sound in his ribcage. “You are _soft._ ”

The bearded man stood a little straighter, eyes flashing with murderous thoughts, but he made no move to step forward and strike.

The man grasping Peter started to walk, slowly moving sideways and always keeping Peter facing the man. “You’ve grown weak. But then again, you always have been. You isolate yourself from others, only to wind up with a trail of children following you around like lost ducklings. You can’t even bring yourself to kill to fell an enemy.”

Peter could hear the sneer in his voice. He wouldn’t know the man standing in front of him from a random homeless guy on the street, but he felt for him. Whatever he’d walked in on was clearly personal, and he didn’t have all the facts; but if push came to shove, he knew whose side he was taking.

They were still moving; the man holding him was backing up to the T-junction that ended the street. It was abandoned, thankfully, but as long as he had Peter, the guy was going to blend with the crowds and cause more damage somewhere else. Peter couldn’t let that happen.

He made eye contact with the bearded man, who was casually strolling after them, poised to pounce but feigning casual movement. Peter lifted his leg, and as the large man took a step backwards, brought his foot down on his knee with all his strength. With a harsh _Snap!_ The man’s leg bent the wrong way, and he screamed.

He was distracted long enough for Peter to pull free and duck forward, like he should’ve done to begin with. A shadow whizzed over his head, trailing a breeze that ruffled his hair, and the sound of body hitting body echoed behind him.

Peter turned as soon as he found his feet, this time determined to web one or both of them up before going back to Riri. He clambered up one wall, and watched them from a good ten feet high, waiting for an opportunity to act.

The larger man had long, blond hair, yanked into a ponytail. Both men wore leather jackets, though wildly different styles. Blondie wore a long, off-brown leather trench-coat, and Beardy wore black and yellow.

As Blondie threw Beardy over his shoulder, Peter slung a web that caught one wrist, and pinned the other end tightly to the wall. Blondie growled, but before he could wrench himself free, Peter leaped to the opposite wall and did the same to his other hand. He webbed his feet next, then simply webbed his body to floor. This process took less than a minute.

As Peter finished, Beardy lopped back into the street, and stared at Blondie with some surprise. Peter flipped off the wall and landed lightly next to him, tired from being flung around. The guy looked at him as if he hadn’t seen him before.

“So,” he said conversationally, “would you mind if I called for someone to clean this mess up?”

“Long as you wait for me to be gone first.”

“Hey,” he asked, “what happened here? This is nuts.”

Beardy glanced back over his shoulder at him. “None of your business,” he said, then turned and started walking. Peter would’ve chased after him, but his Spidey-sense picked that moment to work. This time, he _did_ move fast enough to avoid what was coming; but Beardy didn’t.

Blondie had broken free during their little exchange, and had tackled Beardy like a football player. Beardy got his shiny claws in multiple, painful-looking places, but it did nothing to deter Blondie.

Peter dove in to the fray, having seen how well his webbing worked, and got backhanded so hard he saw little black-and-yellow birds with cigars in their beaks circling his head. His left shoulder, which had shot up in an attempt to protect his face, was _absolutely_ dislocated, and the left side of his whole face was going to be a nice bruise. He would be lucky if his jaw wasn’t broken.

Beardy roared in a way that would visit Peter’s nightmares over the next few nights, and a sickening squelch ended the fight. When Peter looked up and his vision stopped swimming, he saw all three of Beardy’s claws slinked right through Blondie’s face. Beardy kept them like that for a moment, then slowly they retracted into the space between his knuckles.

Peter turned onto his side and puked violently. He was officially traumatized by this day and everything to do with it. He shouldn’t have even climbed out of bed.

Somewhere in the distance – though it may have just been wishful thinking – Peter heard sirens. A shadow fell over him as his vision started to dim, and his last conscious sensation was being gently pulled into a warm, leather-clad chest.

…

May called him when Peter failed to send her a text at noon, and couldn’t reach his cell. Tony had tracked the suit to an alley, where police were already taping off the scene.

It was blood-chilling. Upside-down cars, blood splatters on the pavement, and a silent ambulance shielding the area from nosy reporters. Tony was gaining a grey hair an hour at this point. His appearance caused a disturbance, as it always did, but he’d long since mastered the art of tuning it out.

“What happened?” he asked a flabbergasted cop.

“Uh,” he said, “Tryin’ to find out, actually. Only one witness – a little girl. We pulled her from one of the wrecks. She won’t talk. No cameras, but a few local residents are givin’ their statements now.”

“Thanks,” he said, walking behind the ambulance and peering inside. A little girl with dark skin and curly hair rocked back and forth on the bumper of the ambulance. A young paramedic sat with her, crooning in a motherly voice and smoothing her hair from her face repetitively.

“Hey, there,” he said, kneeling gently. The paramedic stared at him, slack-jawed.

The girl didn’t seem afraid of him. She blinked at him a few times, and he popped the mask to smile at her. She didn’t smile back, and tightened her grip on some red cloth in her fist.

“What do you have there?” he asked.

She curled up tighter, pulling the cloth closer to her chest.

“Sir,” the paramedic said, voice soft. “I think that’s enough.”

“I’m looking for my friend,” he powered on, “Spiderman. Was he here?”

The paramedic was about to cut in again, but the little girl stopped her cold.

“Five-five,” she said.

“I’m sorry?” he asked.

“Five-foot-five,” she amended, voice croaky from crying. “Caucasian. Brown eyes. Between fourteen and seventeen. Queens accent?”

His eyes bulged, and he sent a sharp look to the paramedic. She stared back at him, and he hoped she got his point: this stays here.

“That’s him,” Tony said, turning back to the girl. “Did you see what happened?”

She sniffed, rubbing her thumb over the cloth in her hands.

“Something hit the car. Last night. We rolled to a stop. My uncle climbed out and ran. I was there till this morning; about twenty minutes after it got light enough to see.”

He nodded his encouragement, not even noticing that the officer had come up behind them after hearing the girl’s voice.

“Then Spiderman showed up. He tried to get me out of the car, but someone came up behind him and pulled him out. I heard some yelling and then a fight.”

Here she paused, and when she spoke again, her voice hoarser.

“He showed back up then, by the car. He looked scared. He said it wasn’t safe. He tried to crawl in and fetch me, but he got pulled out again. I heard him scream-” she hiccupped. “Then everything was quiet. More of a fight, but far away. Then it all stopped. ‘Bout five minutes later, the first cop appeared.”

She shrugged at his pale face. “That’s all I saw. Can I go home now?”

The female paramedic blinked rapidly. “Uh- yes, Honey. We just need your mom’s name?”

Tony stood, looking at the shattered street with renewed interest. His scanners showed that the suit was still here; but where? Had the place been checked yet?

He was about to double-check when he felt a tap on the shin of his armor. He looked down and saw the girl again.

“You’re gonna help him?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

She stayed silent for a second, contemplating. Then she handed the cloth in her hand to Tony.

“I don’t need this anymore. Tell him I said thank you.”

Tony was too numb to answer. He gently took the cloth from her – super-strong elastic, nanotech-infused – and choked on what was left of his lungs.

Spiderman’s blank eyes stared back at him.

…

Peter woke up slowly. He didn’t want to; he was warm, curled up under a tick, soft duvet. His head was nestled into a soft pillow, and he would gladly have gone back to sleep, had it not been for a worrying weight on his chest.

He heard a fan blowing somewhere nearby, and he heard someone chewing something crunchy. A sweet smell tickled his nose, and a static station was blaring out of a TV somewhere.

He used that trick to help him sleep sometimes (white noise was a blessing to super senses), so it was further incentive to not move. He slowly became aware of how stiff his left shoulder was, and that his left eye felt swollen and odd.

He blinked his eyes open, and was met with a face only a foot away from his own. A small girl, about nine or ten-years-old, sat on his chest, staring at him unblinkingly. She held a tin of Pringles™ in her hand, and ate them without breaking eye contact.

Perturbed, Peter turned to look around. The room he was in was a well-used apartment. He lay on one of two beds, the other neatly made. The beds faced the door leading into the apartment; to his left was a living-room like area with a large window leading to a fire escape, and to his right was a kitchen.

Everything was mostly clean; there were tiny dust piles in the corner, crumbs on the floor in the kitchen, and fingerprints on the window; but clearly an effort to keep the place in-tact had been made. Most of the stuff was old; the TV was shaped like a box, the couch was a floral-print one you’d see in your grandma’s house, and almost nothing matched. Still, there was a distinctly homey feel to it.

The sound of a fan blowing came from the kitchen. It sat on a stool, with pine-tree air-fresheners tied to it, clanging on its plastic frame every few moments. That explained the smell, then.

The girl sat still and didn’t look away as he soaked the room up. That was starting to get creepy now.

“Hi,” he said. _Blink._

“I’m Peter.” _Blink. Blink._

She picked another chip out of her tin, and chewed it without looking away from him.

“Okay,” he decided, “this isn’t going to work.”

He tried to sit up. Emphasis on ‘tried’. As soon as she felt his weight shift beneath her, she let out a low, inhuman growl. Peter stared for a long, drawn-out moment, before quietly lying back down. The growling stopped, and she went back to munching.

Why couldn’t his life co-operate _just a little?_

He lay there for several minutes, not daring to try and sit up again. In that time, he noticed little things about the girl and the place he hadn’t before. Pictures and posters were hung on the wall at odd intervals, looking like they were only there to cover up suspicious claw marks. There were take-out containers from just about every restaurant and drive-through in America. The couch looked like a tiger slept on it every night, with long claw marks showing the stuffing inside it, and the barely-still-there legs from carrying a load too heavy for it.

He noticed while trying to sit up that his shoulder, though no longer dislocated, ached. When he reached a hand up to experimentally prod his left cheek, he immediately regretted it. It burned hot and felt like one large, raw nerve.

It didn’t take him long to realize his suit was gone. He could tell his underpants were still his and on, thankfully, but he wore black sweatpants. A loose, long-sleeved cotton shirt covered his torso. It was white, or had once been, but now it was slightly yellowed and stained with something suspiciously like blood.

The girl herself was more interesting. She didn’t get bored and hop off him like he thought she would. She stayed right where she was. She would lean back a little, get a far-away look in her eyes; but if Peter stared at her for too long, she’d meet his eyes steadily and growl.

She looked like Beardy. His photographic memory helped him compare the two closely. They had the exact same skin tone, hair color, and bone structure. His jaw – what he could see of it under the beard – was uneven from breakage. His nose had been crushed a couple hundred times too. Her nose and jaw, however, were perfect, and her hair fell long and loose down her back.

Other than that, they shared no differences aside from gender. She had his eyes; small, dark, and glaring. His thick eyebrows sat on top of her scowl, and she had his mouth, minus the hair.

The image was complete when she reached into her tin to grab another chip and found she couldn’t. Instead of tipping the container like a normal person, she stretch out her hand and sprouted two long, glinting blades. She easily took the top of the tin off, slicing it shorter and chucking the stray pieces behind her. He watched fascinated as the claws withdrew into her hand, pulling back under the skin till they were no longer visible. The slits in her skin that the blades had shot through pulled together and knitted closed of their own accord. All that was left to indicate anything strange was a drop of blood over each slit that smeared when she wiped her hand on her clothes.

She caught him staring and growled. He looked away again.

After a few more minutes of this, he was ready to try and sit up again (She had those freaky claw-things, but he was eighty-five percent sure he could take her). He took a deep breath, and was about to try his luck when her head snapped to the door in interest. She smiled a tiny smile, and the new expression was so jarring, Peter almost forgot about his initial plan to escape.

A few seconds later, the door opened, and Beardy strolled in. He had three shopping bags in each hand and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

He cleaned up well, Peter thought. He’d bathed, clearly. His jacket was the same one, but had been cleaned and mended. He no longer limped, and his beard had been groomed and trimmed, along with his hair. He raised an eyebrow at Peter’s predicament.

“Good,” he said. “You’re up. Now get out.”

Peter simply pointed at the reason why he hadn’t done so already.

Beardy sighed, and pulled a fresh tin of lightly salted Pringles™ from one of the shopping bags. He set it on the dining room table (a camping table in the middle of the kitchen), and immediately the girl hopped off of Peter’s chest and made a beeline for her chips.

Beardy smiled at her sweetly, and ran a hand over her head while he walked past her to Peter. He tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but made the mistake of using his left arm. He had to pause for minute and let the stars twinkling in his vision fade, before gingerly using his right arm to push himself up. Once he was seated, Beardy sat on the edge of the bed, glaring at him.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“Uh…” Peter quickly took stock. “Dislocated shoulder, I’m pretty sure. The whole left side of my face. I might have a concussion. I just woke up in a stranger’s bed in clothes that aren’t mine, and I’m failing English. On top of that, I’ll probably need therapy for the rest of my life-”

Beardy raised a hand to stop him. “Hilarious, Bub. I meant what’s a dumb preteen doing looking for fights in back-alleys?”

“That’s actually a longer story,” Peter answered. “Like, three crappy movies with at least two reboots long. Are you sure you want to hear all that?”

Beardy’s eye twitched. “Name?”

“Peter.”

“There,” he said, “Was that so hard?”

Peter reluctantly threw off the covers, and tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. All of his joints complained the whole time.

“How long was I out?” Peter asked, watching the little girl carefully as she hopped up on the bed next to Beardy, and snuggled into his side, chips pulled close to her chest.

“Just the day and night,” Beardy answered.

“Who are you?” Peter asked, since Beardy was suddenly in a sharing mood. “And who was the grumpy blond?”

Beardy glared at him, but Peter held his ground.

“Logan,” he finally answered, “and Grumpy back there was Sabretooth, a guy who has it out for me.”

Peter mulled this over. “What about the girl?”

“My kid,” he said, “Laura. And watch how you talk about her. She doesn’t like condescension.”

“No, no,” Peter defended, “not- well, it’s nice to meet you,” he said to Laura, “but I meant the other one. The little girl hiding in the car. Did she make it out okay?”

Logan’s eyes widened minutely. “I didn’t even know there was one. My senses are pretty good, but he knocked me before you showed up. I thought you were _Deadpool,_ at first.” He grimace, clearly not a fan of whoever ‘Deadpool’ was.

“But Sabretooth has it out for _me,_ not random civilian kids. He wouldn’t’ve gone back for her.”

Peter nodded, and was happy when his head didn’t ache as a result. A stiff neck and the bruise seemed to be the worst of his head-related injuries. Yay!

He looked through the large window, and saw trees outside. It looked like late sunrise.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“My apartment,” Logan answered, “near Central Park. You’re lucky I live so close.”

Peter nodded. He looked at his clothes, at the bed, at the relocated shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said, surprised by his own sincerity.

“If I told you to can the apology and not do anything like that again, would you listen?” Logan asked, glaring.

“Probably not, no,” he answered.

Logan sighed. He stood up and walked over to the couch, yanking a folded-up piece of cloth. He loped back over and chucked it at him. It was the suit, freshly cleaned and folded. He was missing the mask, and Peter hoped Mr. Stark wouldn’t bill him for giving the thing away. All this time, little Laura watched her dad move, chewing her chips thoughtfully. She swung her legs back and forth in a surprisingly childlike way.

“Get out of here,” he said, but this time, there was no aggression in his voice. Peter piled the suit into his arms, standing up.

“I can bring the clothes back?” he offered.

“Don’t bother,” he said, “I’ve got plenty more. Try not to get killed on the way home.”

Peter nodded, then opened his mouth to say more, but nothing came out. He gave Laura a small smile and a wave, but she responded only by tilting her head in curiosity. He gave up, and walked for the door.

“Kid,” Logan called suddenly, making Peter turn before reaching the door.

“…You didn’t completely suck out there. And as us mutants have to stick together, memorize my address and come back if you, I don’t know, get shot or something.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, shocked. “Thank you. But, uh…I’m not a mutant.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You sure fight like one. Heal like one, too. Way your arm clicked back into place, and how it looks now, I’d say we’ll be bumping into each-other in _thirty-_ fifteen.”

“I’m sorry?” Peter asked, a bad feeling in his gut.

“Your healing factor,” Logan spelled out for him, like he was a toddler. “You don’t just heal. You don’t _scar_. That means your cells fully regenerate. It’s called ‘biological immortality’. Haven’t you put that together yet?”

Peter’s pulse started racing. He knew, on some level, that he’d outlive Aunt May and Mr. Stark; but he’d never really thought about what his healing factor changed about his future. Would he have to attend Ned’s funeral? MJ’s? Would he attend their funeral looking exactly like he did right now, young and soft-faced?

“I…” Logan frowned, and this time there was genuine sympathy on his face.

“I have to go.”

Peter bolted. He wrenched the door open and flew down the corridor, past other apartments and down a flight of stairs. He didn’t stop till he reached the front doors and burst out onto the busy street. He stopped then, joints aching from the sudden exertion. His arm throbbed painfully. He breathed deeply and haggardly, sucking in air greedily. Rain drops pattered over his body.

Would he outlive everyone he’d ever known? If he had kids one day, would he have to watch them age, grow old, and die, all while he had to stand by and watch?

He choked on sudden moisture in his throat. His eyes burned, and he felt like someone was playing the cello with the sinews in his chest.

He looked at the address of the apartment building on a plaque to his right. He wanted to remember this place. Then, he ran.

His body complained the whole way home. He got a running start, then leaped up a convenient wall. He got higher and higher, keeping to rooftops, till the skyline started looking familiar. It would’ve taken him about forty-five minutes to get back to he and May’s apartment. It took another twenty minutes, as he slowed as soon as he hit familiar territory.

He paused right outside the door. His brain throbbed. His left eye was swollen nearly shut. His knees shook. That backhand must’ve done a little more damage than he’d thought. On top of all this, he was soaking wet.

He reached for the handle, but couldn’t bring himself to go in. He kept picturing May silver-haired and misty-eyed, back hunched over from years of receptionist work. He pictured the funeral; him in a black suit like the one he wore to his parents’.

It would be simple for her; a small gathering. But the whole world would attend Mr. Stark’s. Would he be invited? Would Pepper’s curvy handwriting adorn the invitations, or would she go first?

He leaned back against the wall, and blinked up at the ceiling. He would give anything in the world for it not to be true, but Logan’s logic was sound. Peter _didn’t_ scar. His cells healed perfectly. He’d considered it a gift before, but now?

He pictured little Laura; the way her eyes followed Logan, and the way he smiled at her while mussing her hair. Would that be him and his kids, maybe? What kind of a person would he have to be to have kids _just_ to avoid being lonely for eternity?

A messed up one, that’s for sure.

But what could he do? He mulled that question over. What could he do?

Make memories, he figured. Take pictures. Stay as close as he could for all the time that they had. And when they passed on? Maybe he’d take Logan up on that offer to stop by, assuming he could handle that crass attitude for all of time.

Wait. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself. Just because his skin healed, didn’t mean his organs did, right? What if he wasn’t immortal. What if he just – lived a really long life? He could get lucky. It had to happen sometime, right?

He didn’t deceive himself for a moment. But he’d resolved to stop and do tests before panicking, and that was what he was going to do.

He took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside. He wondered into the kitchen on silent feet. He could hear May in the lounge, pacing, and he was about to call out for her when he saw his reflection in the fridge.

The left side of his face was black, blue, and faintly green. His left eye was swollen almost shut, and whites of that eye were tomato red. His shoulder throbbed, and so, surprisingly, did his foot. The right one was the foot he’d driven into Sabretooth’s knee. He picked it up to look at it, and the heel was a blackish-blue. His arms and chest, where Sabretooth had pinned him, were red and yellow. His neck was bruised almost as badly as his face.

God. What was he _doing_ with his life?

Finally, he tore his eyes away from his face, and turned to the lounge. Peering into the room, he was surprised to see Mr. Stark there. He sat on the couch, glass of whiskey in one hand and a piece of red cloth gripped in the other. May sat down next to him with a huff, eyes red.

“Anything?” she asked, and it took Peter a minute to realize she wasn’t talking to him.

“Nothing,” Mr. Stark answered. “I have every suit, every man, out looking, and there’s _nothing._ ”

May put her head in her hands. Unable to think of anything to say to help, he simply said, “Sorry.”

May jumped to her feet with a scream of shock, and Mr. Stark choked on his whiskey. They stared at him for a second, almost unable to process his sudden appearance. Then May lunged for him, throwing her arms around him and sobbing. Mr. Stark’s drink fell from his stunned fingers, and splattered on the carpet, staining it a dark gold.

He tripped over his own feet running forward, and almost wrapped his arms around both of them, but chickened out at the last second. May broke the hold, patting him up and down, staring at him with mute horror. Mr. Stark cupped the back of Peter’s head, studying him with sharp brown eyes, and Peter thought about Logan mussing his young daughter’s hair.

“What _happened_ to you?” May asked, sniffling. “Look at you. How- What-”

“It’s a long story,” Peter said.

“We’ve got time,” Tony answered, voice hard.

…

Peter healed fast, thank God.

Still, by his standards, the wounds took their time. He went to school with a made-up excuse of being hit by a car, as half his face was still green, mustard yellow, and deep purple. His friends showed the appropriate amount of sympathy, but none other than Ned dragged him to a corner to ask what had really happened.

Tony only knew all of this because of May. While staying up all night waiting for him, they’d come to a truce. Initially, she only put up with him for Peter’s sake. She could tell he wanted Tony’s presence and ‘help’; and though it might be her biggest fault as a guardian, she trusted Peter. She trusted his instincts and intelligence, and couldn’t bring herself to cut him off.

She settled for a curfew, regular check-ins, and a mentorship; and for a while, that was all they’d ever spoken. And that was fine by both of them.

Then, Peter went missing. Again. That was the clincher. When he had the mask in his hands, the signal showing the suit’s location made sense. He was tracking Karen’s implant chip, not the actual tracker, which sat on his workbench in the compound. He’d taken it out to double-check its radiation filtering, but Tony had been called to a last-minute meeting. When he got back, He noticed it sitting there. Whatever, he’d thought. I’ll put it back when the kid comes around again.

Big mistake.

Tony put every person he had out there looking. He double-checked with other, small-scale vigilantes who may have responded to the fight downtown; those he could reach, anyway. Luke Cage told him to fuck off, as did Iron Fist (who put it in a much nicer way). Jessica Jones wasn’t any more eager to help. That was the problem with small-timers; they were still stuck in their origin-story angst phase.

Daredevil, however, was kind enough to ‘keep an eye out’. Tony was pretty sure he only said that for pun-value, though.

He sat with May in her living room, waiting on news. She alternated between trying his cellphone, pacing, and sitting next to him on the couch with a heavy sigh.

“Do you think he’s okay?” she asked him at about three in the morning, after five hours of cold silence.

“I’m still getting a read from his suit, even though I can’t track it,” he answered. “He’s unconscious somewhere. But his pulse picks up now-and-again. He’s fine physically.”

It was sad that that was the best he could offer her.

“He only really does this because he wants to be like you, you know,” she said. There was no venom in her words; it was just a fact.

“I know,” he replied, gulping down another swig of whiskey from May’s almost untouched top cabinet.

“Can’t even say I don’t know why,” she said, almost too quiet to hear.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, confused. That almost sounded like a compliment, which, although not unwelcome, was a little out of place.

“He’s hero-worshipped you since that Stark-Expo a few years ago,” May continued, her own glass of whiskey in hand. “You probably don’t remember, but you saved his life back then. He was there.”

Tony took his time mulling over that. “I never knew.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said, standing. He thought she’d go for another round of pacing, but instead he heard her ruffling around in a dresser from one of the rooms. She came back with a small mask.

“He said you fell out of the sky. He saw one of those huge robots, and he’d wound up in front of it. Then you showed up and killed the thing.”

He picked up the mask, pretty sure he was having a stroke. It looked its five years, but had obviously been taken care of.

“I remember,” he said, gently setting it back down. May sat next to him.

“I know the fact that he does this,” she gestured vaguely, “isn’t _because_ of you. It’s because of his own complex, and Ben, and whatever else. I just wish…” she sighed, taking another long drain of her glass. “I don’t even know what I wish. Him stopping would be nice, but I know that’s not happening. For the world to be a little kinder, I guess.”

“We all want that for our kids,” Tony said, not looking straight at her. He didn’t think he could handle looking her in the eye right now. His mind was far away, to just before the Civil War, and another distraught mother with a kid who’d wanted to help the world. What was his name? _Charlie Spencer._

Hours later, Peter made his entrance, and Tony’s knees shook so hard at the sight of him that he was amazed he could stand. The kid looked like he’d lost a fight with a _planet_. The explanation of the day’s events didn’t ease the worry on either party.

Still, life went on. It was hard, but it did. Peter went back to school, Tony and May went back to work, and the week flew by. That weekend was a visitation weekend, though Tony offered to ask Peter to stay home.

“Let him go,” May told him, “at least when he’s with you, he’s not fighting muggers or derailing trains.”

And so, that weekend, Happy dropped Peter off at the same time as always. The kid didn’t bounce into the room like usual, settling for stretching and flopping in his chair in the lab.

“Hi, Mr. Stark,” he greeted.

“Hey, kid,” he said, leaning around his screen to stare at him. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he answered, visibly hiding a yawn. “Why?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, walking over to Peter, “I’m gonna have to call bullshit. You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping?”

Peter blinked up at him, looking very much like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He seemed to debate lying for a second, but a stern look from Tony got him to confess.

“I…actually have had some trouble sleeping,” Peter said, slouching in his chair. He looked almost embarrassed.

“You can talk to me if you want to, you know,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “There are probably very few things you could say that would surprise me.”

It took Peter a second, but finally, he turned and faced Tony.

“Do you know what biological immortality is?” he asked, starting off on a completely different foot than what tony was expecting.

He frowned, thinking. “Obviously. An organism that cannot age or die of natural causes. Members include jellyfish and lobsters. What does this have to do with you not sleeping?”

“I’ve just been thinking,” he said, “You know how I met Logan? Who’s like, in his four-hundreds now?”

“Yeah,” he said, “You scared me half to dea- wait. Is that what this is about? You think you might be biologically immortal?”

“I don’t think,” Peter said, staring at the floor, “I know.”

Tony stared at him for a long moment, then rubbed a hand over his face, thinking about how best to approach this.

“It’s impossible to be sure, kid. You’d need a _really_ talented expert to analyze a sample of your blood, and it could take them some time to get back to you if we even did get you checked. And even then, the chances are remote that whoever made that nifty little spider actually got immortality right. So, you’re kind of losing sleep over nothing here.”

“I did get my blood tested,” Peter confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. Tony froze.

“I let Dr. Banner draw some before he left, so he could study the radiation in it. He still had some on hand when I called him to ask if it was feasible.”

He couldn’t look Tony in the eyes. “He got back to me yesterday.”

Tony leaned on the desk heavily. That was…well. Okay, then.

“Even so,” Tony said, speaking slowly. He wanted to say this without invalidating the kid’s feelings. “Immortality isn’t that bad, right? No Alzheimer’s, no arthritis. Probably a couple of Nobel Prizes under your belt. _I’d_ be celebrating.”

“It’s not that,” Peter said, “it- I just- I kind of figured I’d outlive you and Aunt May. You guys are way older than me; not that you’re old! I just; when I thought about it, I knew where I’d fall.”

Peter was gesturing as he spoke now; this was clearly something he’d been bottling up. “And now? I never really pictured myself having to go to Ned’s funeral, or MJ’s. It was never something that I saw happening.”

He grew more closed up again. “I mean, am I going to have to go to _my kids’_ funerals? Cause I don’t have kids, and now I’m not sure I’d ever want to, but if I did, I don’t know if that’s something I’d survive.”

His bit his lower lip. “I don’t know what to do.”

Tony pulled Peter into a tight hug. He was not a hugger, usually. Growing up in cold household pretty much guaranteed that. But twice this week alone, he’d wound up pulling – or attempting to pull – the kid in for one. God, he just had a way of breaking your heart.

“It’s okay,” Tony said, trying to be comforting. “You’re okay. I mean, it’s not like you’ll be in bad company. Cap is biologically immortal. So’s the Hulk, Wolverine, Deadpool. On second thought, forget Deadpool. You don’t even need to know who Deadpool is. Just never let him influence you. Ever.”

Peter choked on a laugh, and Tony pretended not to notice how his shirt was now a little wet where Peter had buried his head. They stayed like that for a long while, and surprisingly, it never grew uncomfortable. Tony didn’t get awkward, or mess it up; it was... okay.

After Peter finally pulled himself together, he pulled back. He sniffed, trying to hide, his tiny breakdown; but Tony didn’t mind.

“Hey,” he said, “How about instead of lab work, we watch some TV. I haven’t seen those new Star Wars movies yet.”

Peter gave an indignant squawk. “You _haven’t?_ ”

“Are they any good?”

“Are they- I’m making popcorn. We cannot continue with _anything_ till you’ve seen these movies.”

Tony smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

…

**31 st July 2195 (180 years in the future).**

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Peter read somewhere that the Chinese used water to torture people without touching them. They would let a drop of water fall onto their foreheads, at regular intervals, nonstop. It wouldn’t take long for them to lose it completely.

Peter had doubted it, thinking it was an exaggeration. He saw now how it would be effective.

“I fold,” Cap said, chucking his hand down. The musty, dank air of the bunker might’ve muffled his voice ordinarily, but Peter’s ears caught it perfectly. He glanced over; a pair of sevens. Not a _bad_ hand, per se, but not the best.

“ _B_ _urro*,_ ” Robbie Reyes, a newcomer, collected his spoils – a meager eight chips.

“Language,” Cap muttered half-heartedly.

Peter shifted, curling up tighter. He had to fight for space on the Hulk’s tucked-in legs; a situation he never thought he’d be in. He scratched his four-day-old scruff and kicked out at Laura, who was trying to encroach on his side of The Lap™.

“Keep your voices down,” Wolverine hissed. “You could wake the Hulk. You’ll piss him off again. And _you’re_ cleaning up his mess.”

The Hulk had been asleep for eighteen months now. He slipped in and out of comas like that, which Peter almost envied. It certainly passed the time.

“God, I miss tequila,” Robbie said, leaning back against the cement floor. “Is there _nothing_ else to do?”

“Not all of us can just set ourselves on fire and go joyriding in that hellscape outside,” Ben Grimm said, shuffling the cards.

“What can I say,” Robbie lit his pinky-finger on fire, “I missed your riveting conversation, _amigo._ ”

He lit his new cards on fire, burning them to a crisp. Must’ve been a bad hand.

“Well, that was the last deck,” Logan said, tossing his cards over his shoulder. “I guess it’s checkers, chess, and Jenga from now on.”

“Don’t we still have a Monopoly board?” Gwen Stacy asked. She lay on the ceiling, splayed out like a starfish.

“No,” Cap, Ben, and Logan said at the same time.

“No more Monopoly,” Cap warned, “It took half a decade for all of our friendships to mend.”

“Some still haven’t,” Ben remarked, glaring at Robbie. The little punk reminded him too much of Johnny; who despite being terribly missed, managed to annoy Ben even in death.

“There’s always orgies,” Robbie offered, but the response was unanimous.

“ _My kid is in here_ , Bub,” Logan growled.

“Mine too,” Cap glared.

Peter smiled lightly. He’d gotten to know Steve Rogers well, and the Captain had semi-legally adopted him during a battle. The only reason it _wasn’t_ legal was because there wasn’t really a legal system in place anymore. Just, as Ben had put it, the Hellscape. A Mad Max-style wasteland courtesy of a solar flare. Dark little bunkers like this one were the only places still somewhat comfortable.

They were not the only survivors, by any means. Other people, in America and around the world, had tucked themselves away. That was only fifty-years-ago, or so. Many could still be alive who remembered what a breeze felt like, or what a cougar looked like, or how the sun felt on their skin. Right now, those little societies were developing new customs, languages, and religions. Peter couldn’t wait till they could leave, and he could learn them all; but that was still centuries ahead. For now, this was the best they could do.

Steve pulled a small box out of an old drawer off to the side. Jenga, apparently, was the new source of entertainment. He had felt personally responsible Tony’s post-Civil War depression and, although the rift left permanent scars on both sides of the conflict, Steve vowed to keep Peter safe for as long as he lived.

_Drip. Drip._

Peter probably should’ve warned him that that might take a while.

A bang on the metal roof of the bunker caused them to jump. Another bang hit, this time closer to the exit hatch. A voice echoed in from the outside.

“Hey guys! I’m back! I bought chimichangas and UNO!”

A deep groan rolled through all of them, even if it wasn’t uttered aloud.

“It’s your turn,” Logan snarled at the ceiling.

Gwen sighed, and reluctantly dropped. God forbid Deadpool made it in again; he was such a pain to get out.

_Drip. Drip._

It was going to be a long eternity.

…

_*Jackass_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you so much for all the support you've given me throughout this fic; I've read every comment, and it's so amazing. I never would've finished if it wasn't for all the support I got on this site, so thank you<3
> 
> Also, I'm sorry this wasn't an actual, put-together fic. This was more a collection of drabbles I wrote whenever the plot bunnies bit. It was fun, though, to picture all the ways Tom Holland's Spider-man would interact with the rest of the MCU. While Andrew Garfield was amazing (pun fully intended) he always struck me as a bit too suave for Spider-man, while Toby McGuire was a touch too cringe-worthy. Tom balanced them out really well; cool, but not too cool to relate to, and dorky, but not the kind that makes you shudder. I loved him.
> 
> Next time I write, I'll try to make it a full, cognitive story, if I'm even capable of that. See you soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is a pretty short, not-too-actiony chapter, but next up is a little more fun. Sorry I've been so quiet lately. I've been going through some stuff, but I'm cool now. Asthmatic bronchitis is not fun, nor is Grade 11. God, I can't wait for college.
> 
> Just a note: this isn't totally MCU compliant. Little things they like to do (white-washing Maria Hill and the Maximoffs, Clint Barton who is fully-hearing, the entirety of IM2 and AoU) really get under my skin, so this will pull off of the comics a lot more than the movies, even though I'm merging them together. 
> 
> Lastly, if it is at all withing your power, appreciate what it feels like to breathe with both nostrils. Please.


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